A mound of moss, with tiny, mossy blooms
Of red and yellow, streaked and speckled o'er,
And set about with tufts of slender fern,
And maiden-hair, on waving, ebon stalk;
A gleam of beauty 'mid the solemn woods,
Its deeps of summer verdure, rank on rank,
And crumbling trunks of still more ancient growth;
A bed, perchance, by faithful nature made,
For some dear favorite perished from her arms;
The cherished treasure of this woodland grave.
So lovely death comes to the innocent,
Till we almost forget, it is the price
Of our lost Eden and its sinless joys.