JVj^oliters drafre •«[ ByMARIAN DOUGLAS]»-
/ ^ L A D robins singing in the boughs, ' —* Low murmur of the bees, A hilhside burying'ground closed round with wilding apple trees; The snowy flowers drift softly down Upon the quiet graves, And in the south wind over one, A small flag gently waves. Those floating colors make for me That grassy mound a shrine. W ha t though the one who sleeps beneath Knew naught of me or mine? Yet that brave life, quenched long ago, Seems of my own a part; For he who dies for freedom, lives In every freeman’s heart. .
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker