And forget the cruel city—on this first blue day of June!
The grass is high—I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day—
It would only be to count my dead—whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow—not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way—but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!