WHILE DRAWING IN A CHURCH-YARD

“It is sad that so many of worth,

Still in the flesh,” soughed the yew,

“Misjudge their lot whom kindly earth

Secludes from view.

“They ride their diurnal round

Each day-span's sum of hours

In peerless ease, without jolt or bound

Or ache like ours.

“If the living could but hear

What is heard by my roots as they creep

Round the restful flock, and the things said there,

No one would weep.”

“‘ Now set among the wise,’

They say:‘ Enlarged in scope,

That no God trumpet us to rise

We truly hope.’”

I listened to his strange tale

In the mood that stillness brings,

And I grew to accept as the day wore pale

That show of things.