Henry David Thoreau - On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand has Pa**ed lyrics

On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pa**'d Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun, My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind And of such fineness as October airs, There after harvest could I glean my life A richer harvest reaping without toil, And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will In subtler webs than finest summer haze.