"Though every summer green the plain,
This harvest cannot bloom again."
False still! This harvest shall bloom again in perpetual and
ever-increasing loveliness. It shall leap in the grace of the
lithe-limbed steed, it shall foam in the milk of gentle-hearted cows, it
shall shine in the splendor of light-winged birds, it shall sleep in the
baby's dimple, toss in the child's fair curls, and blush in the
maiden's-cheek. Nay, by some inward way, it shall spring again in the
green pastures of the soul, blossoming in great thoughts, in kindly
words, in Christian deeds, till the soil that cherished it shall seem to
seeing eyes all consecrate, and the Earth that flowers such growths
shall be Eden, the Garden of God.