Books
Cemetery
Books
Cemetery
A terrace,Without motionIn the dawn.Its limestone cairns,And granite urns,Sinking softlyInto the latent velvetOf the grass.An iron fence,Senescent, guardingThe ineffable peaceWithin.A grey mist,Emanating decay,Brutally stranglesThe chromatic splendorOf a too-bold sunbeam.And sombre pinesConceal their menaceBeneath an awkward invitation.The challengeOf tomorrowFace to face —From Dartmouth Verse, 1930, copyrighted by the Arts.
