He Sits There in the Park

He sits there in the park and stares,
wondering if she truly cares.
A flower wilting half-past noon
he'd hoped to give to her quite soon
now withered lays within his hands;
all hope he'd had no longer stands,
so now he sits here in the park,
even as the sky grows dark.

He sits there in the park and dreams
that life is better than it seems,
and if he'd from this park bench rise
he'd know that one good thing ne'er dies.
"Do come to me!" still does he cry,
sitting 'mid his dream, and sighs.
If he could only understand--
that flower he's still clutched in hand.

He sits there in the park and sings
of all the peace the evening brings,
and lays the flower on the ground,
the very place where it was found,
and travels onward through the park
as the sky grows still more dark;
the staring and the dreaming gone,
he now is left with one sweet song.


-D.B.