 | Feda with Other Poems |  |
146
“THE PITY OF IT.”
A tiny mound of grassy earth,
And whose no word to tell,—
The little life was hardly worth
Recording when it fell.
The birthright Joy it never found,—
A cold and hungry hearth,
The city street for playing ground,
And not the flower-path.
An autumn wind that blew too soon
Unheeded bore away
The butterfly whose life's one noon
Fell on a cloudy day.
And whose no word to tell,—
The little life was hardly worth
Recording when it fell.
The birthright Joy it never found,—
A cold and hungry hearth,
The city street for playing ground,
And not the flower-path.
An autumn wind that blew too soon
Unheeded bore away
The butterfly whose life's one noon
Fell on a cloudy day.
| Feda with Other Poems | |