There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

The Reaper and the Flowers (1839)
tagged: death

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More from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

The Rainy Day (1842)

And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

The Arrow and the Song (1845)

Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

The Golden Legend (1872)

A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

My Lost Youth (1858)

The warriors that fought for their country, and bled,
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed;
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose,
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes.

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame,
And Victory’s loud trump their death did proclaim;
They are dead; but they live in each Patriot’s breast,
And their names are engraven on honor’s bright crest.

"The Battle of Lovell's Pond" (November 17, 1820)