Dora Sigerson Shorter

“ Upon a mossy step the old dial stood
⁠That told the sunny hours; he climbed to see.
“Pass slow, sweet shade,” he said; “the world is good,
⁠Yet bless you for the hours that are to be.”
He raised his head : the wind blew back his hair.
⁠He heard the clanging of a distant spade,
And saw an old man in the garden fair.
⁠Who all amongst the flowers a havoc made.
Deep, wide, and dark the digger made his bed, —
⁠A fearful hollow in the pleasant place.
“Why dig you here?” the youth unto him said ”