THE HAY FIELD.

WITH slender arms outstretching in the sun
     The grass lies dead;
The wind walks tenderly and stirs not one
     Frail fallen head.

Of baby creepings through the April day

     Where streamlets wend,
Of child-like dancing on the breezes of May,
     This is the end.

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew,
     No more they reach

To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue
     A whispered speech.

No more they part their arms and wreathe them close
     Again, to shield
Some love-full little nest—a dainty house

     Hid in a field. [Page 83]

For them no more splendor of the storm,
     The fair delights
Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warm
     On summer nights.

Their little lives they yield in summer death,
     And frequently
Across the field bereaved their dying breath
     Is brought to me. [Page 84]