It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say That ’t was not part of Nature ’s own sweet way, That on the field where once the cannon’s breath Laid many a hero cold and stark in death, Some little children, in the after-years, Had come to play among the grassy spears, And, all unheeding, when their romp was done, Had left a wreath of wild flowers over one Who fought to save his country, and whose lot It was to die unknown and rest forgot?
I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small And why he didn’t grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. “I ’m quite as big for me,” said he, “As you are big for you,”
It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say That ’t was not part of Nature ’s own sweet way, That on the field where once the cannon’s breath Laid many a hero cold and stark in death, Some little children, in the after-years, Had come to play among the grassy spears, And, all unheeding, when...
Thy span of life was all too short— A week or two at best— From budding-time, through blossoming, To withering and rest. Yet compensation hast thou—aye!— For all thy little woes; For was it not thy happy lot To live and die a rose?
