I strolled into the green heart of a wood,
One sunny summer noon, in quest of shade,
But all to me seemed somber and dismayed.
The trees were wan, buds bloomed not as they should;

Nature serene ne'er bore a darklier mood.
I heard no sound; bright butterflies arrayed
In gorgeous tints lurked in the reeds afraid;
I found a dead bird there, and understood.

For its sweet sake flowers droop and calm winds grieve;
Crickets its funeral song will sadly drone;
And leaves will fall its tender breast to shield.
Some friendly spider will its silk shroud weave,
And, oh my God! I, friendless and alone,
See grim before me loom the potter's field.