The Mustard Harvest Poem by Sajad Meer

Harvest the Silver lining,
Don't insist me to the skill of
The good worms
As i bend o'r the Sickle, pining
For the threshy mustard terms.

'Chilly hot! ,
As the crows soar high,
Beyond me, am under
The hedge to sigh,
To save the frenzy pot!

Now as the white coals sweat hard,
The briar is far away,
I long for the Sun's shade,
At the pleasant and breezy bay.

Call me, 'O wheatish boy'!
As i lumped and grumped berries,
Drank the mused merries,
In the hot joy.

All but spire is gay,
Longings of the dew from the Heavens,
Patience and waitings may pay,
Laus deo, the worldly Leavens.