In Summer, farmers scythe the harvest fast; <br />Their weary frames from morn till eve stay bent; <br />The produce sheaved is dried in fields so vast; <br />The air with songs of joy from heart is rent. <br /> <br />The scorching Sun doesn't bother their tanned skin; <br />Despite their speed, their work is ne’er over; <br />All hands labour, young, old, both kith and kin, <br />For golden harvest, thanking Lord- Giver. <br /> <br />The reapers everywhere must work quite hard; <br />There is no time to eat or drink water! <br />Their sweat-drenched land has yielded them reward; <br />The struggle involved ain't a great matter. <br /> Each morn they stand and pray to Sun- their God, <br /> Without which, there's no food, peasant, landlord.<br /><br />Dr John Celes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-harvest-time/
