GRASS-GROWN
Grass grows at last above all graves, you say?
Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all!
To think that stars will rise and dews will fall,
Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play
Where roses bloom and violets of May,
Robin to robin in the tree-tops call,
And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall,
Just as they did before that strange, sad day!
Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to know
That our eyes sometime must forget to weep,
Even as June forgets December's snow?
Over the graves where our beloved sleep,
We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow,
Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep!
Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all!
To think that stars will rise and dews will fall,
Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play
Where roses bloom and violets of May,
Robin to robin in the tree-tops call,
And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall,
Just as they did before that strange, sad day!
Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to know
That our eyes sometime must forget to weep,
Even as June forgets December's snow?
Over the graves where our beloved sleep,
We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow,
Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep!
