Wednesday, February 21, 2007


by: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896)

      ENEATH the sunny autumn sky,
      With gold leaves dropping round,
      We sought, my little friend and I,
      The consecrated ground,
      Where, calm beneath the holy cross,
      O'ershadowed by sweet skies,
      Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form,
      Those blue unclouded eyes.

      Around the soft, green swelling mound
      We scooped the earth away,
      And buried deep the crocus-bulbs
      Against a coming day.
      "These roots are dry, and brown, and sere;
      Why plant them here?" he said,
      "To leave them, all the winter long,
      So desolate and dead."

      "Dear child, within each sere dead form
      There sleeps a living flower,
      And angel-like it shall arise
      In spring's returning hour."
      Ah, deeper down -- cold, dark, and chill --
      We buried our heart's flower,
      But angel-like shall he arise
      In spring's immortal hour.

      In blue and yellow from its grave
      Springs up the crocus fair,
      And God shall raise those bright blue eyes,
      Those sunny waves of hair.
      Not for a fading summer's morn,
      Not for a fleeting hour,
      But for an endless age of bliss,
      Shall rise our heart's dear flower.

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