The field of life hath springs that flow
From clear springs, failing never,
Still doth the thirsting traveler go
Unsatisfied forever.

The field of life hath ways that bloom
With flowers of heavenly dye,
Still doth the traveler, wrapped in gloom,
Unheeding pass them by.

The field of life hath golden grain
Which waits the crescent blade,
But it doth call aloud in vain;
The reaper's arm is stayed.

The field of life hath tree and vine,
Low bends the fruitful limb,
Yet doth the traveler's heart repine;
These bring not joy to him.

The weary traveler tarrieth not
To rest beneath the shade;
He journeyeth onward to the spot
Wherein his grave is made.

The streams may sing, the flowers may bloom,
The fields may wave with grain
And glow with fruit — the gaping tomb
Hath made these worse than vain.