

484. LONGFELLOW. 

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, 
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NII) | But move one of these to some quiet spot, 
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The Reaper and the Flowers, 
Longfellow. 
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. 
TENOR, SP 
‘* 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. 
[eS Sa arn ae a ta KS BS ES De 
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