In fields hopeless and dumb
Droops the pale-bladed grain;
It is dozing and numb
Amid dreams that are vain. . . .
With a high sudden hum
The field tosses its mane:
"Unto us Christ is come!"
The wild news shakes the plain.
Like a wind-beaten drum
Shouts the quivering grain.

The bells ring soft and slow,
There is clamor and pain
In the church, and a low
Voice is lifted again
That reiterates: "Woe!"
To the poor folk and plain
Are brought candles aglow:
"Christ is coming again!"
But with voices of woe
They file doorward, in pain.