  It pushed a guided way between The pebbles of her grave; A poplar hastening to be green And silver signals wave. And we who sought her with the moon, Were met by branches stirred, And whiter grew as grew the croon That seemed her hidden word. "O, she would speak!" my heart-beat said; My eyes were on the mound; And lowlier hung my waiting head Above the prisoning ground. Then smiled the lad and whispered me,— The lad who most did love; "She stoops to us; the little tree Is wakened from above!" |
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