Foreign Hillside 'Neath This Foreign Sky
Crad'ling in your foster arms
by Henry McCone
The grave wherein I lie--
Hold high this tiny cross that is the all of me
That some within this hating world may see.
And--tell them how passionately I longed to live, how desperately
Wring from their hears my teardrops left unshed;
Be thou my living, now I am dead.
Ay, tell them my emptiness who chance to see
Ye last, last speech that doth remain to me.