TIRED
I wonder if the growing grass
Has ever weariness?
Or the little flowers that lean
The gray hillside to bless?
Their roots reach down into the mold
So deep, that once was men;
I wonder do they ever draw
A heart-ache from it then?
And the rain that patters down
On the green blades like tears;
Has it kept a taste of salt
From the forgotten years?
And the wind that has been breath
Of happy lips or sad;
Is that why its voice has still
No sound ever wholly glad?
Forget us, Earth, forget;
When we dry our tears on your breast;—
As we and the mold are one
Let us nothing know but rest.