Spring Harvest

HERE in New England, Nature never yields
An easy harvest from her rocky fields,
Nor tries to smooth the way for those who still
Cling to a homestead on a snowy hill.
She spreads no fields of luscious cane for these,
But hides their sugar in old maple trees,
And every year she watches as they go.
With bits and pails, through drifts of melting snow,
To tap their groves and harvest patiently
The clear, white sap that drips from every tree.
She smiles to see them in the fragrant steam
Of kettles bubbling where wood fires gleam:
No easy harvest here for him who makes
This old decoction for your griddle cakes,
For forty quarts of sap will leave but one
Lone quart of syrup w hen the boiling’s done,
To pay the harvester whose labor frees
The hidden sweetness of the maple trees.