He above whose grave are set
Sprays of Roman violet;
Poets, sages,—all who wrought
In the crucible of thought.
—CLINTON SCOLLARD.
A fair little girl sat under a tree
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;