Along the uplands waves the grain
⁠In golden billows, and below
Upon a level stretch of plain
⁠The whitened fields of buckwheat grow.
The leafy boughs with apples bend,
⁠The green is on the chestnut-burs,
The locust-buds their perfume send,
⁠The breeze now scarce a ripple stirs
Above the surface of the lake,
⁠And in the silence*of the brake,
O'ergrown with ferns, the cat-bird screams,
⁠The brown thrush and the robin sing,
The air with light is half ablaze,
⁠And underneath the dazzling beams
Of the noontide's exultant rays.
⁠The bluebird spreads his azure wing.

Down where the dusty roads divide,
⁠The little, old red schoolhouse stands,
And here upon the shady side,
⁠The children group in happy bands,
Let loose at noon. The open door,
⁠The battered porch, the well-worn floor,
The row of nails, on which a score
⁠Of rimless hats are hung by day.
The grass is trodden by the feet
⁠Of merry urchins at their play,
And heedless of the summer heat,
⁠For life to them is very sweet,
The intermission glides away.
⁠Oh gleesome hearts, in after years
These scenes to you will bring no tears
⁠When life is not a holiday.

Dear friend! the ancient elegiac strain
For death — was death itself and dark despair;
Each word a sob — the vain lament in vain
⁠⁠Fell on the careless air!

Better our teaching, though they teach as well,
How deathless atoms in eternal flow
Compose the mortal bodies where we dwell,
⁠⁠And all things high and low.

Can senseless atoms live? forever live?
Aild that which animates them ever die?
Can we — together brought, without our leave,
⁠⁠Then forc'd apart to fly —

Be worse for immortality? Our loss
Cannot be lasting while He lasts to tell
What glory shines behind His better cross,
⁠⁠Who doeth "all things" well!

She makes no moan above her faded flowers,
⁠She will not vainly strive against her lot,
Patient she wears away the slow, sad hours,
⁠As if the ray they had were quite forgot;
While stronger fingers snatch away the sword,
⁠And lighter footsteps pass her on the ways,
Yielding submissive to the stern award
⁠That said, she must go softly all her days.

She knows the pulse is beating quickly yet,
⁠She knows the dream is sweet and subtle still,
That struggling from the cloud of past regret,
⁠Ready for conflict live Hope, Joy, and Will
So soon, so soon to veil the eager eyes,
⁠To dull the throbbing ear to blame or praise,
So soon to crush rewakening sympathies,
⁠And teach them she goes softly all her days.

She will not speak or move beneath the doom,
⁠She knows she had her day, and flung her cast,
The loser scarce the laurel may assume,
⁠Nor evening think the noonday glow can last.
Only, oh youth and love, as in your pride,
⁠Of joyous triumph your gay notes you raise,
Throw one kind glance and word where, at your side,
⁠She creeps, who must go softly all her days.

Beyond the fields with summer glowing
I see a grave where flowers are growing,
Where grateful hands are always throwing
⁠Bright laurels one by one.
A splendid heart at rest is lying,
A brave heart, victor in its trying,
That left humanity when dying,
⁠A great work grandly done.

Within those fields with sunlight burning,
His scanty living daily earning,
A man the fragrant hay is turning
⁠Into many a heap;
Slow are the eyes that watch his raking,
Or idly signs of weather taking,
The heart to impulse only waking,
⁠The soul still dumb, asleep.

Which is the death? We are receiving
New courage from a soul yet giving,
A blessing from a heart yet living,
⁠An inspiration still.
Which is the life? A dull, blind straying?
A toil no grander thought obeying?
Heart, live thy best, thy questions laying
⁠On some far broader will.