Where the spring violets softly grow

Around the moss stone head,

A lullaby is stirring slow

Beside his body’s bed.

A forest finch with pillowed breast

To twilight turns her tune –

She hops the purpled place of rest,

And plumps her downy plume.

The gentle melody rocks to sleep

The pinkend cloudy sky;

The breeze can hardly dare to peep,

Or waken the lullaby.

Perhaps she sang just to the grave,

Perhaps it was just for me;

Who knew but that she sang to save

What darkened eyes can’t see.

As in some thoughtless trance she knew –

And so to truth did sing –

Of something through the air which blew

Of more than suffering.

The little things