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 debris¹，

    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 shroud²

    in the dark-brown fields uprisen，

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

    orchards³，

    Carrying a corpse⁴ to where it shall rest in the grave，

    Night and day journeys a coffin⁵.