Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

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 blessèd 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!