Under the LeavesOn the gray bough a dove that grieves; Death seemeth here to have his own, But the spring violets nestle down Under the leaves. A brow austere and sad gray eyes, Locks in which Care her silver weaves; Hope seemeth tombed no more to rise, But God he knoweth on what wise Love for Love's sunshine waiting lies Under the leaves. __William Herbert Carruth
|
Visit the Home Page for Kansas