After Long Grief, by Madison Cawein

  There is a place hung o'er of summer boughs
  And dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;
  Where water flows, within whose lazy deeps,
  Like silvery prisms where the sunbeams drowse,
  The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows
  Tinkle the stillness; and the bobwhite keeps
  Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps,
  And children's laughter haunts an oldtime house:
  A place where life wears ever an honest smell
  Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom,—
  Like some sweet, simple girl,—within her hair;
  Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell
  Far from the city's strife, whose cares consume.—
  Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.