As happy children who in careless play
Scatter bright blossoms on their homeward way,
So thou on life's rough path hast scattered flowers,
To lighten some dark day, or bitter hours,
Unto thy brothers, who, with weary feet,
Pause in the toil of live thy voice to greet,
That as an organ pealing, loud then low,
Like the loved voices silent long ago,
Lingers within our hearts, and never we
Its echoes may forget as long as time shall be.
And now these fadeless blossoms thou hast twined
Into a wreath; and ever shall the wind
Of time blow softly o'er them, and the air
Seem sweeter for the gift of things so fair.
The lowest place thou wert content to win,
So thou couldst find but room to enter in,
And lay thy chaplet there before that shrine,
Amid so much the world doth deem divine.
Yea, thou hast passed the portal, and hast found
That with the laurel green thy brow is bound.