The Voice of the Grass

by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney

I

Ere roves the bee or cometh forth the flower,

Ere on the tree the south wind bloweth power,

The naked place I crown; I edge the stream;

Into love's face I look, and feed her dream.

II

My lot with man is cast.

I round him shine and wave,

Nor fail him at the last:

I lie upon his grave.





Last updated January 14, 2019