Explore "The Little Tree" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It pushed a guided way between / The pebbles of her grave; / A poplar hastening to be green / And silver signals wave.
And we who sought her with the moon, / Were met by branches stirred, / And whiter grew as grew the croon / That seemed her hidden word.
"O, she would speak! " my heart-beat said; / My eyes were on the mound; / And lowlier hung my waiting head / Above the prisoning ground.
Then smiled the lad and whispered me, -- / The lad who most did love; / "She stoops to us; the little tree / Is wakened from above! "