The standing grain is waving

The standing grain is waving

So rich and mild.

The shining scythes are gleaming:

the sheaf is becoming larger.

Come on let us start

the harvest song.

Alas, but in the midst of it

a bell is ringing out.

The funeral knell is sounding

from the belfry;

we know what it means:

She is gone!

Two eyes rest in a grave,

they are so meek and blue.

And on the gift of God

drops the dew of tears.