THE STRANGER

Half-hidden in a graveyard,

In the blackness of a yew,

Where never living creature stirs,

Nor sunbeam pierces through,

Is a tomb, green and crooked,—

Its faded legend gone,—

With but one rain-worn cherub's head

Of smouldering stone.

There, when the dusk is falling,

Silence broods so deep

It seems that every wind that breathes

Blows from the field of sleep.

Day breaks in heedless beauty,

Kindling each drop of dew,

But unforsaking shadow dwells

Beneath this lonely yew.

And, all else lost and faded,

Only this listening head

Keeps with a strange unanswering smile

Its secret with the dead.