SONG IN EXILE
Aurelio S. Alvero

It is harvest-time in Polo and the fields bear ripened grain,
Stalks on stalks of gold and yellow; fruit of sun and rain-
There's a moon of gleaming silver looking down on fields below,
Stars that sprinkle dark blue heavens with their ever-sparkling glow;
List to songs of voices joyful sing of love and joy and gain.
For 'tis harvest-time in Polo and the fields are ripe with grain.

When it is harvest-time in Polo, all the folks are in the fields,
Gathering all the fruit so mellow that the good earth gladly yields-
Little maidens fresh as blossoms, gay young swains with happy smiles,
Busy women ever thinking of the coming afterwhiles,
Sturdy men whose iron bodies bend unmindful of the pain,
For 'tis harvest-time in Polo and the fields are ripe with grain.

Scythes are moving in the silver glowing of the harvest-moon,
Keeping time to strains of music of a lively native tune;
Dainty fingers gather rice stalks, quickly tie them into sheaves,
Gleaners picking the remainders that the owner gladly leaves;
Bent to earth, they all are working-but there rings a happy strain
For 'tis harvest-time in Polo and the fields are ripe with grain.

Now 'tis harvest time in Polo; I can hear their happy songs,
But I must stay in city walls while my sad heart fondly longs
To be with them and join the harvest of the laden stalks of gold;
I can see them gaily working 'neath the moonrays brightly cold-
And oh! to be with them this evening, to do the harvest once again
In this harvest-time in Polo where the fields are ripe with grain.