Even as I used to rumple his gray hair -- Tempering its dignity -- so, now, I strew His sombre grave with heliotrope's fair hue And drape with clover chains the headstone bare. Then, in the tall, lush grass above him there I sprawl and talk with him an hour or two, Planning the many things I hope to do, Placing my heart's rich treasure in his care. Small comfort mine, you think? So think all those Who walk beside a father, hear his voice, And know his full affection. They suppose That only those so favored can rejoice. At this we smile in secret, Dad and I; We know that fathers never really die. |