Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead;
Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
And reverenced are the tears ye shed.
And honored ye who grieve.
The praise of those who sleep in earth,
The pleasant memory of their worth,
The hope to meet when life is past,
Shall heal the tortured mind at last.
But ye, who for the living lost
That agony in secret bear,
Who shall with soothing words accost
The strength of your despair?
Grief for your sake is scorn for them
Whom ye lament, and all condemn;
And o'er the world of spirits lies
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.
* * * * *
=_342._= THE SONG OF THE SOWER.
Brethren, the sower's task is done.
The seed is in its Winter bed.
Now let the dark-brown mould be spread,
To hide it from the sun,
And leave it to the kindly care
Of the still earth and brooding air.
As when the mother, from her breast,
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest,
And shades its eyes, and waits to see
How sweet its waking smile will be.
The tempest now may smite, the sleet
All night on the drowned furrow beat,
And winds that from the cloudy hold
Of winter, breathe the bitter cold,
Stiffen to stone the yellow-mould,
Yet safe shall lie the wheat;
Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue,
Shall walk again the genial year,
To wake with warmth, and nurse with dew,
The germs we lay to slumber here.
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