Tired

I wonder if the growing grass Has ever weariness? Or the little flowers that lean The gray hillside to bless?

Their roots reach down into the mold So deep, that once was men; I wonder do they ever draw A heart-ache from it then?

And the rain that patters down On the green blades like tears; Has it kept a taste of salt From the forgotten years?

And the wind that has been breath Of happy lips or sad; Is that why its voice has still No sound ever wholly glad?

Forget us, Earth, forget; When we dry our tears on your breast;-- As we and the mold are one Let us nothing know but rest.