SUMMER IN THE CEMETERY.
By Nettie J. Hunt
SHE softly folds her glowing robes upon them,
Those dear, bare mounds that hold the hearts we miss,
And brightens them with violets blue, and wakens
The tender fern with many a lover’s kiss. She bids the robin and the bluebird loiter,
And trill their sweetest in the cypress trees.
They know no death tale, so their glorious piping
Fills with its melody the scented breeze. And then she presses loving lips upon them,
Those mounds so bright with blue and gold and green.
“O dust that lies beneath this matchless splendor,
Knowest thou never fairer robes were seen? “Into thy darkened eyes does not the sunrise
Gleam in its rose-hued marvel ever new?
Into thy sleeping ears do not the bird songs
Steal with their tales of love forever true?” But to her loving passion comes no answer;
So, with a flood of tender, gushing tears,
Leaves she white lilies, golden hearted, fragrant,
Whispers, “Sleep on till God’s great spring appears.”