Classic Poem

I think you still can hear me as I sing,
And so, dear friend, as keepsake and adieu,
This song, which God has given me, I bring
And offer you.

Death his scythe is swinging,
Thro' the corn and clover,
Death is softly singing,
" Summer-time is over. "

Oh, thou stealthy comer,
Thou art here too soon,
It is early summer,
It is only June.

God is still bestowing
Summer sun and rain,
On a blossom growing,
Hidden in the grain.

Gently Death replieth,
" Who the seed hath sown,
Reaps it ere it dieth,
Blighted, overblown.

" Great is His compassion,
And He reaps the flower
In His Father-fashion,
At its fairest hour.

" All are in His keeping,
So my song is blithe,
Love directs the reaping,
Tho' I hold the scythe. "

Death is singing, singing,
" Summer-time is over, "
Death his scythe is swinging,
Through the corn and clover.