Oblivion

Green moss will creep

Along the shady graves where we shall sleep.

Each year will bring

Another brood of birds to nest and sing.

At dawn will go

New ploughmen to the fields we used to know.

Night will call home

The hunter from the hills we loved to roam.

She will not ask,

The milkmaid, singing softly at her task,

Nor will she care

To know if I were brave or you were fair.

No one will think

What chalice life had offered us to drink,

When from our clay

The sun comes back to kiss the snow away.