Classic Poem

Where, O field, is the softly lapping sea,
as when you trembled at the south wind's power?
The poppies only and the fleur-de-lis
are left, with here and there a larkspur flower.

And in the morning's silent blue profound
they seek in vain the wonted whispering sound;

while on the farmer's threshing floor again
in morning silence now they beat the grain.

Where, O field, is your sea tranquil and wide,
with filmy veil of wheat heads at full moon?
Through dusky furrows now the glow worms glide,
through naked furrows crickets chirp at noon.

And in the evening, by the lightning's glare,
they seek the grain throughout the meadow bare:

while on the bank there of the river, still,
in the evening sweet, resounds the rumbling mill.