Classic Poem

The wind is shaking the old dried leaves
That would not quit their hold,
The sun slips under the stiffened grass,
And drives away the cold.

Child Franca carries the dinner-horn
To summon home the men;
She raises it high for a ringing blast,
But silent it falls again:

" The men on the hill are hungry, I know,
They 've been working for hours and hours;
But first I will blow just as kind as I can
To call out the sweet little flowers, —

" Blow loud for the blossoms that live in the trees,
And low for the daisies and clover;
But as soft as I can for the violets shy,
Yes, softly — and over and over. "