THE flood of life that turned away
In search of rarer things, the rose,
The fragile flower that bursting blows,
And as it blows turns to decay,
Once more seeks rest along the way
Of earlier days and finds repose
In love of each green thing that grows,
A bunch of grass, an alder spray.
You common things I hold you dear
And beg the comfort you can give;
The faith that bears you through the year,
The courage both to die and live;
Believing that I too shall hear
The mountains fall, and shall not grieve.