There is a Reaper whose name is Death, <br />And, with his sickle keen, <br />He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, <br />And the flowers that grow between. <br /> <br />'Shall I have nought that is fair?' saith he; <br />'Have nought but the bearded grain? <br />Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, <br />I will give them all back again.' <br /> <br />He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, <br />He kissed their drooping leaves; <br />It was for the Lord of Paradise <br />He bound them in his sheaves. <br /> <br />'My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,' <br />The Reaper said, and smiled; <br />'Dear tokens of the earth are they, <br />Where he was once a child. <br /> <br />'They shall all bloom in fields of light, <br />Transplanted by my care, <br />And saints, upon their garments white, <br />These sacred blossoms wear.' <br /> <br />And the mother gave, in tears and pain, <br />The flowers she most did love; <br />She knew she should find them all again <br />In the fields of light above. <br /> <br />O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, <br />The Reaper came that day; <br />'Twas an angel visited the green earth, <br />And took the flowers away.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/voices-of-the-night-the-reaper-and-the-flowers/
