THE WREATH
Easter, 1917
Here on my path by some hard fate struck down,
When life at last held out full hands to me.
When the great dreams of younger years awoke
And dear dead voices whispered “Liberty.”
Ah, cruel blow, from which I stricken rise
And blindly stagger for that path again,
To wonder if 'tis worth the striving now,
Thus robbed upon life's highway and half slain.
Here I awoke to fear again the dead,
Whose tender faces held me as I slept.
Ah, well I knew who leaned above me there,
Into whose arms so pitiful I crept.
And I awoke, for Spring did cry “Arise!
For birds within the green woods carol clear.”
Then Easter came with wreath of lilies pale,
Placed on my heart the grief of yester-year.