The sun sets down.
There comes the night
and mist and damp
lay soft and light
their cooling hand
on meadow, field
and flow'r and grass.
The tired world
now calmly rests
from fervour's heat.
The quiet field
of crops and sweet
abundance dreams. . .
But hark -- the scythe!
With clink and clank
and slashing sound;
it coldly marches
o'er the ground,
with stiff, hard steps
the flow'ry path
walks silent Death.
In tears now stands
what ripes and blooms:
when day new dawns
and sun new glooms,
with all his strength,
with one hard blow
mows roughly Death.
Such death is hard.