There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
  And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
  And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have naught that is fair?” saith he;
  “Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
  I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at...