The Voice of the Grass

by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney


Ere roves the bee or cometh forth the flower,

Ere on the tree the south wind bloweth power,

The naked place I crown; I edge the stream;

Into love's face I look, and feed her dream.


My lot with man is cast.

I round him shine and wave,

Nor fail him at the last:

I lie upon his grave.

Last updated January 14, 2019