  "You think I am dead," The apple tree said, "Because I have never a leaf to show— Because I stoop And my branches droop, And the dull gray mosses over me grow. But I'm still alive in trunk and shoot; The buds of next May I fold away— But I pity the withered grass at my foot." "You think I am dead," The quick grass said, "Because I have parted with stem and blade. But under the ground I am safe and sound With the snow's thick blanket over me laid. I'm all alive and ready to shoot, Should the spring of the year Come dancing here— "You think I am dead," A soft voice said, "Because not a branch or root I own! I never have died But close I hide, In a plumy seed that the wind has sown. Patient I wait through the long winter hours; You will see me again— I shall laugh at you then, Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers." —Edith M. Thomas. |
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