The Constant Ones

By Nora May French

The tossing trees had every flag unfurled
    To hail their chief, but now the sun is set,
And in the sweet new quiet on the world
  The king is dead, the fickle leaves forget.
A placid earth, an air serene and still;
  In misty blue the gradual smoke is thinned—
Only the grasses, leaning to his will,
The grasses hold a memory of wind.