Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Song of the Grass

Song of the Grass.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;   By the dusty roadside,   On the sunny hill-side,   Close by the noisy brook,   In every shady nook,I come, creeping, creeping everywhere.

   In the noisy city street,   My pleasant face you'll meet,   Cheering the sick at heart,   Toiling his busy part,Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

   You cannot see me coming,   Nor hear my low sweet humming;   For in the starry night,   And the glad morning light,I come, quietly creeping everywhere.

   When you're numbered with the dead   In your still and narrow bed,   In the happy spring I'll come,   And deck your silent home,Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

   My humble song of praise,   Most gratefully I raise,   To Him at whose command   I beautify the land;Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.