Over the breast of the spring， the land， amid cities，

Amid lanes and through old woods， where lately the violets

peep'd from the ground， spotting the gray debris，

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes， passing the

endless grass，

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat， every grain from its shroud

in the dark-brown fields uprisen，

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the

orchards，

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave，

Night and day journeys a coffin.