When the summer fields are mown, <br /> When the birds are fledged and flown, <br /> And the dry leaves strew the path; <br /> With the falling of the snow, <br /> With the cawing of the crow, <br /> Once again the fields we mow <br /> And gather in the aftermath. <br /> Not the sweet, new grass with flowers <br /> Is this harvesting of ours; <br /> Not the upland clover bloom; <br /> But the rowen mixed with weeds, <br /> Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, <br /> Where the poppy drops its seeds <br /> In the silence and the gloom.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aftermath-3/
