Classic Poem

How still the quiet fields this autumn day,
The piled up sheaves no more retain their gold,
And ploughmen drive their horses o'er the mould,
While up into the hills and far away
The white road winds to where the sun's last ray
Mantles the heavens in a scarlet fold
Of glorious colour, of radiance untold,
And then the twilight turns the red to gray.

How still the quiet fields this autumn eve;
And yet we know that here, in other lands,
Red war still causes mothers' hearts to grieve,
And lives are spent as countless as the sands.
O God, we ask that Thou wilt put to flight
The shadows of this quiet autumn night!