Aftermath

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 mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Comments (11)

Wonderful way of description....excellent and too good
Marvelous depiction of transition from one season to another along with the changes in nature's manifestations and the lovely rhythm of the flowing have made this poem exceptionally beautiful. Thanks for sharing it here.
After math, I have English, then P.E., then history...
Wow! This is the pinnacle of loveliness. The rhythm and the rhymes set the readers' feet on the path in the changing seasons of this farmland. This is art from the Master's hand.
Aftermath settles my soul and breaks my heart at the same time. The autumn harvest comes with comfort as well as darkness, but come it must.
See More