  IT was the little leaves beside the road. Said Grass: “What is that sound That detonates and desolates the air?” “That is St. Peter’s bell,” Said rain-wise Pimpernel; “He is music to the godly, Though to us he sounds so oddly, And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.” Then something very like a groan Escaped the naughty little leaves. Said Grass: “And whither track These creatures all in black, So woebegone and penitent and meek?” “They’re mortals bound for church,” Said the little Silver Birch; “They hope to get to heaven, And have their sins forgiven, If they talk to God about it once a week.” And something very like a smile Ran through the naughty little leaves. Said Grass: “What is that noise That startles and destroys Our blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?” “That’s folk a-praising God,” Said the tough old cynic Clod; “They do it every Sunday, They’ll be all right on Monday; It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.” And laughter spread among the little leaves. Bliss Carman. |
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