Ripe Wheat

We bent to-day o'er a coffined form, And uur tears feil sof tly down ; We looki d our last ou the aged face : Witli ïts look ot peaco, its patiënt grace, And liair like a silver crown. Wt touched our own to the clay-oold hands, Frum lite's lonfj labor at rest; An.l umoug the biossums white and sweet We nuted a bunch ot golden wheat Cuif-iiüd close to the suent breaat. fhe blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom, Oi a land where fall no tears ; The ripe wheat told of toil and eire, i'ho patiënt waitiiif?, tlie trusting prayer, Tue arnereü good of tlie yeura. vVe kuovr not vrhat works her hands had foand, What rued places her feet; Wlmt cross was hers; what blackness of night ; VVe saw but the peace, the blossoms white, Aml the bunch oi ripeued wheat.