Classic Poem

A light upon the harvest-field,
A " Well-done!" in the air:
" Rest-Angel, only weary yield!"
Rose up his eager prayer.

Again in work went by the day,
Till working hands grew thin;
Once more the restful shining lay, —
The old man entered in.

A teacher he, in white-haired youth;
The body's cloister, old, —
The spirit growing young with Truth
Through birthdays manifold.

A teacher he of oracles,
And one his life did sing:
The field lies always Harvest-white,
If inly lies the Spring.