And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,

And not feel my sorrow’s share?

Can a father see his child

Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear

An infant groan, an infant fear?

No, no! never can it be!

Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all

Hear the wren with sorrows small,

Hear the small bird’s grief and care,

Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the next,

Pouring pity in their breast,

And not sit the cradle near,

Weeping tear on infant’s tear,

And not sit both night and day,

Wiping all our tears away?

Oh no! never can it be!

Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;

He becomes an infant small;

He becomes a man of woe;

He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,

And thy Maker is not by;

Think not thou canst weep a tear,

And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us His joy

That our grief He may destroy;

Till our grief is fled and gone

He doth sit by us and moan.”

Nobody spoke for several minutes, sniffles and throats clearing the only sounds in the desolate woods.

“She liked that poem,” said Pete. Then he folded the paper and placed it at the foot of the grave.

Vern’s black cheeks were shiny and wet. His big shoulders bobbed up and down. His crying sounded large and low-pitched. His lower lip trembled.

“She held on long as she could, Pete,” said Vern. “Always remember that. She held on long as she could.”

Pete wore a numb face. “Yeah.”

Vern touched Pete’s shoulder. “We all with you, boy.”

Reese buried her face in Paul’s stomach. Ruth knelt beside the dirt. Pete stood still.

“Hey, Pete,” said Vern. “You okay?”

Pete turned to face Vern. The boy’s eyes were beginning to fill with water. Pete fell into the big man’s arms, and his body became limp. Vern lifted Pete into himself like he was a small child instead of a teenager. Pete’s feet dangled high above the ground. His shirttail had risen up to his shoulder blades so that his bare back showed. And Pete screamed into the chest of the great man like a child who was all alone in this world.

“We all with you, boy,” said Vern in a soft voice. “We all with you.”

Forty-Four
Spring Wildflowers

The spring sun was enough to make a person dizzy. The air was crisp, and the sun was hot. The whole world was beginning to bloom, and it made Marigold feel pure excitement.