TO LITTLE THINGS
They are the little rains that slowly seepTo roots of flowers, which comfort and renew,—Even as the flower is fed by morning dew,And quiet night puts the young blooms asleep,Rocked by the little wind—most dear of all.Dear little things, with little tender waysThat are not known, that have no lauds of praise,—But when we turn to go—they softly call.
O dear caressing littleness that clings,—The little crying wind, the little rain,That calls us when we may not come again,—Tender and sweet as are all gentle things—The clinging hands, the sound of running feetTo bid farewell,—so dear, so sobbing sweet.
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