Poetry Archives

God’s acre was her garden-spot, she said;
  She sat there often, of the Summer days,
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead,
  Her hair a fable in the leveled rays.

She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross,
  And knelt to coax about the wiry stem.
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
  Now it is anguish to remember them.

And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
  And walked a way and turned to look around-
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
  She shall not lie in consecrated ground.