COMMUNICANTS

Who knows the things they dream, alas!

Or feel, who lie beneath the ground?

Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grass

That close them round.

In spring the violets may spell

The moods of them we know not of;

Or lilies sweetly syllable

Their thoughts of love

Haply, in summer, dew and scent

Of all they feel may be a part;

Each red rose be the testament

Of some rich heart.

The winds of fall be utterance,

Perhaps, of saddest things they say;

Wild leaves may word some dead romance

In some dim way.

In winter all their sleep profound

Through frost may speak to grass and stream;

The snow may be the silent sound

Of all they dream.