Leave me Hope!
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The Hay Field
WITH slender arms outstretching in the sun
W
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
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