Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/58



Spring fluttered in from distant lands To fill the world with yearning All hastened forth to greet the sun From its lengthy dream returning.

The finches flew from out their nests The children from each shanty, Bright colored flowers in the fields Exhaled their scented plenty.

Upon each branch new leaves push forth, While the song birds chirp above In every youthful, joyous heart Sprout tender buds of love.

I dreamt that you had passed away, I heard the mournful knell And all about me weeping, sighs, Lamenting, rose and fell.

How queerly they prepared your bed; With stone upon your grave. They asked me that I write a verse For you there to engrave.

O people, people made of stone Here, take my heart instead. And what I did not sing as yet Engrave above her head.

You disbelieved my deepest love, My words met your disdain. Perhaps if this stone speaks to you It shall not speak in vain.