Unto one who lies at rest
‘Neath the sunset, in the West,
Clover-blossoms on her breast.
Lover of each gracious thing
Which makes glad the summer-tide,
From the daisies clustering
And the violets purple-eyed,
To those shy and hidden blooms
Which in forest coverts stay,
Sending wandering perfumes
Out as guide to show the way,
All she knew, to all was kind;
None so humble or so small
That she did not seek and find
Silent friendship from them all.
Moss-cups, tiarella leaves,
Dappld like the adder’s skin,
Fungus huts with ivory eaves
Which the fairies harbor in,
Regiments of fronded ferns,
Golden-rod and asters frail,
Every flaming leaf that burns
Red against the autumn pale,
Every pink-cupped wayside rose,–
All to her were dear and known;
But above them all she chose
Clover-blossoms for her own.
So they laid her to her rest
In the sun-warmed, bounteous West,
Clover-blossoms on her breast.
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