THE LITTLE TREE

It pushed a guided way between

The pebbles of her grave;

A poplar hastening to be green

And silver signals wave.

And we who sought her with the moon,

Were met by branches stirred,

And whiter grew as grew the croon

That seemed her hidden word.

“O, she would speak!” my heart-beat said;

My eyes were on the mound;

And lowlier hung my waiting head

Above the prisoning ground.

Then smiled the lad and whispered me,—

The lad who most did love;

“She stoops to us; the little tree

Is wakened from above!”