 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
[Beside a lonely grave I stood]
Beside a lonely grave I stood—
With brambles 'twas encumbered;
The winds were moaning in the wood,
Unheard by him who slumbered.
With brambles 'twas encumbered;
The winds were moaning in the wood,
Unheard by him who slumbered.
A rustic standing near, I said:
“He cannot hear it blowing!”
“'Course not,” said he: “the feller's dead—
He can't hear nowt that's going.”
“He cannot hear it blowing!”
“'Course not,” said he: “the feller's dead—
He can't hear nowt that's going.”
“Too true,” I said; “alas, too true—
No sound his sense can quicken!”
“Well, mister, wot is that to you?—
The deadster ain't a-kickin'.”
No sound his sense can quicken!”
“Well, mister, wot is that to you?—
The deadster ain't a-kickin'.”
I knelt and prayed: “O Father, smile
On him, and mercy show him!”
That countryman looked on the while,
And said: “Ye didn't know him.”
On him, and mercy show him!”
That countryman looked on the while,
And said: “Ye didn't know him.”
Pobeter Dunk.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |