The House of the Trees
& Other Poems

by Ethelwyn Wetherald


The Hay Field

WITH slender arms outstretching in the sun
          The grass lies dead;
The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one
          Frail, fallen head.

Of baby creepings through the April day
          Where streamlets wend,
Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May,
          This is the end.

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew,
          No more they reach,
To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue
          A whispered speech.

No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close
          Again to shield
Some love-full little nest—a dainty house
          Hid in a field. [Page 10]

For them no more the splendor of the storm,
          The fair delights
Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warm
          On summer nights.

Their little lives they yield in summer death,
          And frequently
Across the field bereaved their dying breath
          Is brought to me. [Page 11]