A modest bud matured mid secret dews, May yield its bloom beside some hidden path, Full of sweet perfumes and of rarest hues While few may note the beauty which it hath--
And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there, May bend beside it with a loving look, Or by the streamlet place it in her hair; And smile above her image in the brook.
A bird with pinions beautiful, and shy, May sing scarce noted mid the noisier throng; Or 'scaping earth, take refuge in the sky And though concealed still charm the air with song.
Yet haply some enamored ear may hark, And deem it sweetest of the birds that sing; Or in his heart still praise the unseen lark That leads his fancies toward its heavenward wing.
A star in some sequestered nook on high, In its deep niche of blue may calmly shine, While careless eyes that wander o'er the sky, May only deem the brightest orbs divine.
But there are those who love to sit and trace Between all these some shy retiring light, For such, they know, shed through the veil of space The general halo that adorns the night.
Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar, The few may deem as worthy to be named, (As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star!
Last from the church came the organist, Daniel Summerman. He was less hurried than others; to him it was not, as to people in general, a day of increased social responsibility. His great duty was now performed. Done, whether well or ill. He descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so light you might have taken it for a child's. No need for him to haste; the precious moments would go fast enough--he wished not to lose one.
In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his woollen gloves, and button his great coat, and for something besides. Perhaps the person who laid the wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was somewhere about, and had some criticism to offer in respect to the choir's performance.
But he descended the church steps without having met even the sexton; somewhat disappointed, it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger standing in the churchyard among the graves; by the grave, it chanced, of a child who died in October, five years old. When the organist perceived this, a purpose which he would have formed later in the day, anticipated itself, and led him to the little mound. He would leave the cedar wreath on Mary's grave.