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 grass 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.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add Aftermath to your own personal library.

Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Afternoon In February

Anton Chekhov
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Susan Glaspell
Mark Twain
Edgar Allan Poe
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Herman Melville
Stephen Leacock
Kate Chopin
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson