Could such a pulseless thing like death

Make one so eager, dumb.

{56}

To Friends

LAST night, when I was wearied to my soul,

L

I was slipping out to dreamland very fast.

When I tho’t about you, and the things you did,

The help you gave, for which I did not ask.

Your unselfishness and kind deeds true,

Kept coming up before me like a scroll.

I could not count the many things you did,

For me, when I was sick, in body and in soul.

My undeserving self grew very, very tired.

With all the counting of them, and I slept.

But, ’twas just to dream again of all these things,

And in my restless sleep, I wept, and wept, and wept.

{57}

To a Meadow Lark

AND when I saw him stamping over

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