'The last load is carried,
The meadow is mown;
Then why on the scythe-track
Still wanderest lone?

'The high-loaded wagon
Has wound round the hill;
But thou in the valley
Art lingering still.
'Dost think of the voices
So cheery, so blithe?
The bloom on the grasses?
The sweep of the scythe?

'The joy of the children
A-rock on the hay?
The wind-wafted fragrance?
The laughter, the play?'

'The high-loaded wagon
Has wound round the hill;
But I in the valley
Am lingering still,

'To think of their sorrow,
Whose day's work is done,
Who are not called homeward
At set of the sun.

'Whose life's tale is ended,
Or e'er the life close;
To think, for a moment,
How bitter for those

'Who in the bare stubble
Must still linger on;
The burdens all carried,
The comrades all gone.'