484 
LONGFELLOW. 
But move one of these to some quiet spot, 
From the mid-day Sun’s broad glare, 
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing; 
And try if the homely, despised thing, 
May not yield sweet fragrance there. 
Reaper anir % jflatom. 
Longfellow. 
T HERE is a Reaper whose name is Death, 
And with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
And the flowers that grow between. 
“ Shall I have naught that is fair ? ” saith he ; 
“ Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again.” 
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves : 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 
“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,” 
The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
“Dear tokens of the earth are they 
Where he was once a child. 
