  In a churchyard old and still, Where the breeze-touched branches thrill To and fro, Giant oak trees blend their shade O’er a sunken grave-mound, made Long ago. No stone, crumbling at its head, Bears the mossed name of the dead Graven deep; But a myriad blossoms’ grace Clothes with trembling light the place Of his sleep. Was a young man in his strength Laid beneath this low mound’s length, Heeding naught? Did a maiden’s parents wail As they saw her, pulseless, pale, Hither brought? Was it else one full of days, Who had traveled darksome ways, And was tired, Who looked forth unto the end, And saw Death come as a friend Long desired? Who it was that rests below Not earth’s wisest now may know, Or can tell; But these blossoms witness bear They who laid the sleeper there Loved him well. In the dust that closed him o’er Planted they the garden store Deemed most sweet, Till the fragrant gleam, outspread, Swept in beauty from his head To his feet. Still, in early springtime’s glow, Guelder-roses cast their snow O’er his rest; Still sweet-williams breathe perfume Where the peonies’ crimson bloom Drapes his breast. Passing stranger, pity not Him who lies here, all forgot, ’Neath this earth; Some one loved him—more can fall To no mortal. Love is all Life is worth. |
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