Witter Bynner

From “Presences”

HE picked us clover-leaves and starry grass

And buttercups and chickweed. One by one,

Smiling he brought them. We can never pass

A roadside or a hill under the sun

Where his wee flowers will not return with him—

His little weeds and grasses, cups that brim

With sunbeams, leaves grown tender in the dew.

Come then, oh, come with us—and each in turn,

Children and elders, let us thread a few

Of all the daisies … to enfold his urn,

And fade beside this day through which he passes

Bringing us clover-leaves and starry grasses!