To a Morning-Glory 



Found blooming on the grave of John Gore, my favorite teacher* 



Dear little waif from the fields astray; 

 Why hast thou chosen his couch of clay? 



And wandered here alone, 

 To trail thy slender stem with grace 

 Across the sod in this shadowy place, 

 To lift one flower lit with heaven's own blue 

 In honor of him whose heart was true 



And kind to every one. 



Yonder thy kindred amid the com 

 Lustily climb over weed and thorn: 



Here thou art scantily fed. 

 Strangely thy scalloped leaves appear 

 Under the spreading maples here. 

 Wouldst thou be with him this dewy morn? 

 He loved thee as well as the com. 



God made both, he said. 



Silent his school-room long has been, 



But its sounds are revived in the chatter and din 



Of the grackles in the trees. 

 Erased are the colors he put on the wall, 

 But here in thy chalice are tints that recall 

 The crayons he used, and the trumpets he drew, 

 And all of the simple devices he knew 



How to mirjrgle with A B C's. 



Didst thou follow him unto the tomb, 

 Brighten his bed with thy one little bloom. 



And at his feet recline? 

 His was an eye that was eager to see 

 Signs of capacity in you or me; 

 Doubtings and obstacles he would remove ; 

 He liked the venturesome; he would approve 



Persistence such as thine. 



Dear little waif, I love thee too. 

 Thy clinging form and thy flower blue. 



And greet thee here to-day. 

 I love thee for bringing such beauty and grace 

 On a quiet morn to this somber place; 

 For cheerfully taking what heaven bestows, 

 And making the best of the day as it goes, 

 And smiling the gloom away. 



— James G. Needham. 



*0n Sunday morning, August 13th, in Walnut Ridge Cemetery at Virginia, 

 Illinois. 



