  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 childlike dancing on the breeze 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. For them no more the 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. |
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