Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Aftermath lyrics

When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath. Not the sweet, new gra** with flowers Is this harvesting of ours; Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mired with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom.