Thoughts.

I dug a grave, one smiling April day,         A grave whose small proportions testified     To empty arms, and playthings put away,         To ears which heard, when only fancy cried;             I wondered, as I shaped that little mound,             If in my home such grief should e'er be found.     I dug a grave, 'twas in the month of June;         A grave for one who at his zenith died;     When, on that mound with floral tributes strewn,         The tear-drops fell of one but late his bride,             I wondered if upon my silent bier             Should rest the moist impression of a tear.     I dug a grave by Autumn's sober light,         A grave of full dimensions; 'twas for one     Whose hair had changed its raven hue to white,         Whose course had finished with the setting sun;             I wondered, as I toiled with pick and spade,             Where, and by whom, would my last home be made.