The harvest of a quiet eye,

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): A Poet's Epitaph. Stanza 13.

And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay

Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour.

Colley Cibber (1671-1757): Richard III. (altered). Act v. Sc. 3.

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd

Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;

He was perfumed like a milliner,

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose and took 't away again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. Sc. 3.

They sin who tell us love can die;

With life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.

.   .   .   .   .

Love is indestructible,

Its holy flame forever burneth;

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.

.   .   .   .   .

It soweth here with toil and care,

But the harvest-time of love is there.

Robert Southey (1774-1843): The Curse of Kehama. Canto x. Stanza 10.