Harvest-fields

I WALKED today through a clover meadow, mown
And sweet with dying bloom;
Treading under my feet a glory fit to grace
A king's way, or his tomb:
Acres of loveliness laid low, and dying
Of numberless lives, only the winds sighing.

And I thought, as who does not, of other fields,
Flowered with unnumbered dead,
Wondering how those kings, the flowers of grass,
Hold up a regal head,
Plan of closer cutting, redder harvest-making,
All the world sighing and its heart breaking.
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