I can show you the suicide’s grave, where bracken and bryony twine,
By cross-roads on the heath, where the breath of the breeze is like wine;
And bees and butterflies flit in the sun, and life is joyous and sweet,
And takes no care for the tragedy there, where the suicide sleeps at your feet.
Dwellers in village and town, each contribute their tale to the store,
Peasants of valley and down, fishers by river and shore.
Thus I tell you the Tale of the Road, told with a laugh or a sigh;
Sought with a zest, told with a jest, wrought with a tear in the eye.
CHARLES G. HARPER.
Petersham,