38
OUR COMMON BROTHERHOOD.
I never saw his face, or knew his name,
But that gay morning as I loitering came
Around the blossoming hillside, all aflame
With lilac spires and apple-blossoms brave,
That to the rifling air their sweetness gave,
I saw where they were making him his grave.
If I had chanced to meet him by the way,
In all the golden sunshine of the day,
No pleasant word I might have found to say;
But since he could no longer come to meet
The world, love-smitten, dreaming at his feet,
Nor feel within his pulse the Spring-tide beat,
Nor love again, I gave for him instead,
And poured upon his low, unconscious head
The sacramental love that shrives the dead.
