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Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


God's Acre


I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
  The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
  And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
  Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
  Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. 
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
  Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. 
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow! 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's other poems:
  1. To the River Yvette
  2. To the River Rhone
  3. Oliver Basselin
  4. The Warden of the Cinque Ports
  5. The Crew of the Long Serpent

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