Poetry Archives

I dug a grave, one smiling April day,
  A grave whose small proportions testified
To empty arms, and playthings put away,
  To ears which heard, when only fancy cried;
    I wondered, as I shaped that little mound,
    If in my home such grief should e’er be found.

I dug a grave, ’twas in the month of June;
  A grave for one who at his zenith died;
When, on that mound with floral tributes strewn,
  The tear-drops fell of one but late his bride,
    I wondered if upon my silent bier
    Should rest the moist impression of a tear.

I dug a grave by Autumn’s sober light,
  A grave of full dimensions; ’twas for one
Whose hair had changed its raven hue to white,
  Whose course had finished with the setting sun;
    I wondered, as I toiled with pick and spade,
    Where, and by whom, would my last home be made.