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Kasper Miaskowski - On Harvest
put under sickle each grain head,
And letting her light blond hair freely spread,
She ties the sheaves in the fertile meadows,
Setting the stacks in the fields in long rows.
Like an eager host of black ants in file,
That chose their place and a safe isle,
Carry on their backs for their tribe the goods,
From forest stump or clearing in the woods:
So the legions of industrious reapers,
Though it is very hot, wipe their foreheads;
Some put down with a cheer thick manes of hay,
Which a hooked sickle at once clears away;
Others, whose wheat sheaves sear in rays of sun,
Carry them quickly to the rack wagon;
Soon with the loud whip it rolls to the barn,
Until the night wraps the fields in black yarn.
Translated by Michael J. Mikoś
Ceres was the goddess of grain.