Finally, the hot, bone-dry summer in our quiet cove on Lake Hartwell is giving way to morning mists, milder days, and longer, cooler nights. Football rivalries are growing intense like the crimsons, golds, and orange sunsets and foliage in the Upstate’s Appalachian foothills. For centuries, September’s harvesting time has been celebrated by Native Americans and farmers. It’s a time to give thanks for food, its abundance, and safe harvesting.
Autumn is by far the season most written about in our literature. This month’s poem is by Emily Pauline Johnson (1861- 1913). Her poem vividly personifies summer as a woman, resting on the plains, adorned in golden grain, foreshadowing the change of seasons. Her word choices evoke a sense of abundance, tranquility, and natural beauty.
During her brief lifetime, Johnson published a total of 165 poems: some under her name; some under her Paternal grandfather’s Mohawk name, Tekahionwake. Her father was chief of the Six Nations Reservation in Canada. Her poems appeared in American and Canadian periodicals and in three collections she released just prior to her death.
Harvest Time
By Emily Pauline Johnson
Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain,
Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,
Wearied of pleasuring weeks away,
Summer is lying asleep today,
Where winds come sweet from the wild rose briers
And the smoke of the far-off prairies’ fires;
Yellow her hair as the golden rod,
And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;
Purple her eyes as the mists that dram
At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream;
But over their depths the lashes sweep,
For summer is lying today asleep.
The north wind kisses her rosy mouth,
His rival frowns in the far-off south,
And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek
And summer awakes for one short week, –
Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain,
Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.
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