IN AN OLD CHURCHYARD

In one of England’s sweetest spots, A little old grey church I found; Around it lies—dear restful ground! God’s garden with its sacred plots. With myriad arms the ivy holds Its time-worn walls in close embrace: So Memory sometimes keeps a face Half-veiled in tender misty folds. With sleepy twitter and with song The tower, bird-haunted, is alive; In leafy seas they dip and dive, Those tiny warblers all day long. Like sentinels grown hoar with age, The crumbling headstones guard the graves Which softly swell—green voiceless waves That will not break though tempests rage. “Concerning them that are asleep” In this sweet hamlet of the dead, In broken sentences I read The record those old tablets keep; Each told its tale, for hath not Grief A voice whose echoes never die? Adown the ages, Rachel’s cry Still rings o’er some God-garnered sheaf. Mine eyes, ne’er prodigal of tears, Did fill with such as seemed to rise And drown the glory of the skies, O’er those who’d slept the sleep of years.