_Oh, Purple Hang The Pods_

Oh, purple hang the pods On the green locust-tree, And yellow turn the sods On a grave that’s dear to me!

And blue, softly blue, The hollow Autumn sky, With its birds flying through To where the sun-lands lie!

In the sun-lands they’ll bide While Winter’s on the tree;-- And oh that I might hide The grave that’s dear to me!