Poems (Katharine Elizabeth Howard)/To little things
TO LITTLE THINGS
They are the little rains that slowly seep
To 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 ways
That are not known, that have no lauds of praise,—
But when we turn to go—they softly call.
To 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 ways
That 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 feet
To bid farewell,—so dear, so sobbing sweet.
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 feet
To bid farewell,—so dear, so sobbing sweet.