Page:Roses in Rain, by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1910.pdf/40



And tender Autumn through the forest glides, And when the chilling showers begin to fall. The languid summer in her bed she hides, Till life departs. Then lovingly a pall Of leaves all gold and red She weaves to robe her dead ; Yet knows she’ll wake again at spring’s glad call.

So let it be with me when I am dying— My mother’s kiBS, the evening’s BunBet smile. So let me lie, like summer softly lying, With autumn’s flaming leaves for funeral pile. There shall be “light at even,” And a glad morn in heaven— Weep not, fond hearts,—’tis but “a little while.”