Aftermath

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    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.