The Graveyard

Hark to voices that do murmur

Within the place of those whose ears

Are wilted and entombed forever

More deaf than stone of thousand years.

See the pale gossamer gliding

Of mist between these ranks of stone

Set up for those who’s long abiding

Sees no change of name or tomb.

Smell the dying the scents of flowers

Lain before the many graves,

Sprinkled by the salty showers

Of the mourning and depraved.

Touch the old, rough-carved granite face

Where the names of those who’ve passed

Stand above their final rest-place

Stones that make the mortal last.

Feel the deep, down-trickling sorrow

Of the many names there carved

Who looked no further than tomorrow

And found themselves in this graveyard.