VIII - GRAVE STONES IN A FRONT YARD

Lest the swift world forget their names and pass

Unthinking, they have set this cold dead slate

Above their slumbers in the living grass

To warn all comers of impending fate;

Where friends made merry once at their behest,

Where young feet strolled about the shady lawn,

They welcome none but one unfailing guest,

And all the revellers but Death are gone.