An Epitaph.*

Tread lightly here, for here, ’tis said,
When piping winds are hushed around,
A small note wakes from under ground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone and leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves;
- Gone to the world were birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o’er the green,
Or school-boy’s giant form is seen:
But love, and joy, and smiling spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!

* Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod