Herb of Grace
I do not know what sings in me—
I only know it sings
When pale the stars, and every tree
Is glad with waking wings.
I only know the air is sweet
With wondrous flowers unseen—
That unaccountably complete
Is June’s accustomed green.
The wind has magic in its touch;
Strange dreams the sunsets give.
Life I have questioned overmuch—
To-day, I live.
Amelia Josephine Burr