“On fields o'er which the reaper's hand...”
by Henry D. Thoreau

On fields oer which the reaper’s hand has pass[e]d,
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.

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A Note on the Text:

• Source: Collected Poems of Henry Thoreau edited by Carl Bode (Chicago Packard and Co., 1943) p. 142.

• Title from first line

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