A Reed by the River/Through the Fields
THROUGH THE FIELDS
Come, my dear, we'll go a-wandering, a-wandering we'll go,
While the sun upon the fields is lying red,
The sky is like a dove-wing, the woods are black below,
And the brier in a net of bloom is spread.
While the sun upon the fields is lying red,
The sky is like a dove-wing, the woods are black below,
And the brier in a net of bloom is spread.
Has heart of day an odor like the dewy evening air
That blows across the clover and the thorn?
And is there yet a sound, that for silence can compare
With the rustle, rustle, rustle of the corn?
That blows across the clover and the thorn?
And is there yet a sound, that for silence can compare
With the rustle, rustle, rustle of the corn?
Shall ever glow a memory or ever gleam a star,
Though myriads arise for you and me,
That shall welcome us and beckon us and follow us afar,
Like the shining of yon star above the tree?
Come, my dear,—we'll go a-wandering adown the dawning years;
Beyond this eve there's many a waiting morn,—
But through the din the tumult, the broken dream, the fears,
We shall hear the rustle, rustle of the corn;—
The soft and scented twilight, the hush, too deep for tears,
In the rustle, rustle, rustle of the corn.
Though myriads arise for you and me,
That shall welcome us and beckon us and follow us afar,
Like the shining of yon star above the tree?
Come, my dear,—we'll go a-wandering adown the dawning years;
Beyond this eve there's many a waiting morn,—
But through the din the tumult, the broken dream, the fears,
We shall hear the rustle, rustle of the corn;—
The soft and scented twilight, the hush, too deep for tears,
In the rustle, rustle, rustle of the corn.