TIRED
I wonder if the growing grassHas ever weariness?Or the little flowers that leanThe gray hillside to bless?Their roots reach down into the moldSo deep, that once was men;I wonder do they ever drawA heart-ache from it then?And the rain that patters downOn the green blades like tears;Has it kept a taste of saltFrom the forgotten years?And the wind that has been breathOf happy lips or sad;Is that why its voice has stillNo sound ever wholly glad?Forget us, Earth, forget;When we dry our tears on your breast;—As we and the mold are oneLet us nothing know but rest.