Beyond the fields with summer glowing
I see a grave where flowers are growing,
Where grateful hands are always throwing
Bright laurels one by one.
A splendid heart at rest is lying,
A brave heart, victor in its trying,
That left humanity when dying,
A great work grandly done.
Within those fields with sunlight burning,
His scanty living daily earning,
A man the fragrant hay is turning
Into many a heap;
Slow are the eyes that watch his raking,
Or idly signs of weather taking,
The heart to impulse only waking,
The soul still dumb, asleep.
Which is the death? We are receiving
New courage from a soul yet giving,
A blessing from a heart yet living,
An inspiration still.
Which is the life? A dull, blind straying?
A toil no grander thought obeying?
Heart, live thy best, thy questions laying
On some far broader will.
