The sun is sinking on the sacred lands
Wherein the grain ungarnered beckoning stands.
Who loses never finds, nor can, nor may,
The common, human glory of the day.
Close, let us enter, tear-blind as we must;
Reapers, not gleaners of a solemn trust.
Cookies on Poetry Cove
We use cookies to remember your language preference and — only with your consent — to learn how Poetry Cove is used. You can change your mind any time.
A NEW FRIEND. · Elizabeth Stuart Phelps · Poetry Cove