Ye rippling waves of golden corn ! full ears,1
And reapers singing merry ’mid the grain,2
Be still ! nor move these heavy eyes to tears ;3
What once brought joy, now brings me only pain.4
Whilst she still lived, sweet soul, now shrined in heav’n,5
Labour was sweet—alas ! ’tis bitter now ;6
Wealth worthless if to her it is not given—7
Then rest, ye reapers ; labourers, leave the plough.8
Ah me ! there is no light upon the sheaves,9
The music of the summer breeze has fled ;10
In summer’s place are winter, and dead leaves—11
Why should I labour still, while love lies dead ?12