I Made A Song

I made a song from the dead notes of his birds,
And wove a wreath of withered lily buds,
And gathered daisies that the sun had scorched,
And plucked a rose the riotous wind had torn,
And stolen clover flowers,
Down-trodden by the kine,
And fashioned into ropes,
And tied with yellow reed,
An offering unto Him: and lo, the dust
Of crumbling blossoms fell to bloom again,
And smiled like sickened children, wistfully,
But strong of faith that mother-stalk
Would send fresh blossoms in the spring.