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 | Western windows and other poems |  |
98
A LOST GRAVEYARD
Near by, a soundless road is seen, o'ergrown with grass and brier;
Far off, the highway's signal flies—a hurrying dust of fire.
Far off, the highway's signal flies—a hurrying dust of fire.
But here, among forgotten graves, in June's delicious breath,
I linger where the living loved to dream of lovely death.
I linger where the living loved to dream of lovely death.
Worn letters, lit with heavenward thought, these crumbled headstones wear;
Fresh flowers (old epitaphs of Love) are fragrant here and there.
Fresh flowers (old epitaphs of Love) are fragrant here and there.
Years, years ago, these graves were made—no mourners come to-day:
Their footsteps vanish'd, one by one, moving the other way.
Their footsteps vanish'd, one by one, moving the other way.
99
Through the loud world they walk, or lie—like those here left at rest—
With two long-folded useless arms on each forgotten breast.
With two long-folded useless arms on each forgotten breast.
| Western windows and other poems | |