The scarlet briars trailed across
The grave I journeyed far to see;
Upon the stone, half hid in moss,
“Prepare for death, and follow me.”
The birds flew southward down the sky;
Upon a golden linden tree
The leaves that fluttered seemed to sigh,
“Prepare for death, and follow me.”
My father’s father slept below
So dreamless deep and silently,
I spelled the message soft and slow,
“Prepare for death, and follow me.”
—Ah me! ’twas years ago the birds
Fled swift o’er that far golden tree;
And wherefore now come back these words,
“Prepare for death, and follow me”?