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We bent today o'er a coffined form,
And our tears fell softly down;
We looked our last on the aged face,
With its look of peace, its patient grace,
And hair like a silver crown.

 

We touched our own to the clay-cold hands,
From life's long labor at rest;
And among the blossoms white and sweet,
We noted a bunch of golden wheat,
Clasped close to the silent breast.

 

The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom,
Of a land where fall no tears;
The ripe wheat told of toil and care,
The patient waiting, the trusting prayer,
The garnered good of the years.

 

We knew not what work her hands had found,
What rugged places at her feet;
What cross was hers, what blackness of night;
We saw but the peace, the blossoms white,
And the bunch of ripened wheat.

 

As each goes up from the field of earth,
Bearing the treasures of life,
God looks for some gathered grain of good,
From the ripe harvest that shining stood,
But waiting the reaper's knife.

 

Then labor well, that in death you go
Not only with blossoms sweet,--
Not bent with doubt and burdened with fears,
And dead, dry husks of the wasted years,
But laden with golden wheat.