From the broad fields, their golden glory shorn,
And sunny uplands, of their beauty reft,
Through the still sunlight of the autumn morn,
And hedgerows, with their lingering jewels left,
By the brown river, through the leafy lanes,
On to the farmsteads move the loaded wains.

The stalwart reaper bears his brightened scythe,
Or tracks the course the great machine has made,
And bonnie lass and lad, sunburnt and lithe,
Round whose straw hats woodbine and poppies fade,
Wake all the meadow land with harvest strains,
Clustering and laughing round the loaded wains.

'Tis soft September nature's harvest yields,
But all through life our ripening fruit we reap,
Now storing violets from sweet April fields,
Now roses that bright July sunshines steep,
Now garnering gray October's sober gains,
Now Christmas hollies pile our loaded wains.

Ah me! how fast the fair spring flowers die,
How summer blossoms perish at the touch,
And Hope and Love in useless sympathy,
Weep for the Faith that gave and lost so much!
From half our sheaves drop out the golden grains,
Small is our portion in the loaded wains.

Yet, ere the mighty Reaper takes it all,
Fling out the seed, and tend it rood by rood;
One ear is full, though hundreds round it fall,
One acre 'mid a mildewed upland good;
Eternity will rear on heavenly plains
The smallest treasure won from loaded wains.

The sun sank low; beyond the harbor bar
⁠The waves ran white and high;
The reefed sails of a vessel showed afar
⁠Against the gray-blue sky.

Sharp called the gulls, as 'mid the tossing spray
⁠They circled swift; and loud
The north wind roared, as it rushed down the bay,
⁠And rent the seaward cloud.

Past the old lighthouse, rising white and tall,
⁠Like birds the wind deceives,
Swept from the forest by the surging squall,
⁠Sail the sear autumn leaves.

Fast o'er the dark and foam-capped waves they fly,
⁠Brown ghosts of May and June,
Seeking the ship tossed up along the sky
⁠Beneath a thin, white moon.

Then as they sped on to the shadows gray,
⁠The sun sank lower down,
Sending a golden light across the bay,
⁠And through the dark old town.

It made the church spires glow with shifting light,
⁠That slow grew faint and pale,
As it was borne into the coming night
⁠By the swift rushing gale.

The shadows darkened, and along the sea
⁠The swaying ship had flown;
The sun was gone; one bright star glisteningly,
⁠Near to the moon outshone.

Through crimson, flame, amber and paling gold,
⁠Faded the day's sweet light;
And on the sea and land gathered the cold,
⁠Gray shadows of the night.

⁠When the grass shall cover me,
Head to foot, where I am lying;
⁠When not any wind that blows,
⁠Summer blooms nor winter snows,
Shall awake me to your sighing;
⁠Close above me as you pass,
⁠You will say, "How kind she was,"
⁠You will say, "How true she was,"
⁠When the grass grows over me.

⁠When the grass shall cover me,
Holden close to earth's warm bosom;
⁠While I laugh, or weep, or sing
⁠Nevermore, for any thing;
You will find in blade anc^jossom,
⁠Sweet, small voices, iraorous,
⁠Tender pleaders in my cause,
⁠That shall speak me as I was —
⁠When the grass grows over me.

⁠When the grass shall cover me!
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow
⁠Very patient, I can wait —
⁠Knowing that, or soon or late,
There will dawn a clearer morrow;
⁠When your heart will moan, "Alas!
⁠Now I know how true she was;
⁠Now I know how dear she was,"
⁠When the grass grows over me.