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I I NEVER come here but I see | |
| This same old woman, wearing years | |
| That bear her head and shoulders down; | |
| Her eyes are dry of tears. | |
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| Each headstone has some tale for her, | 5 |
| From each to each she goes. | |
| They tell her things she understands | |
| About the folks she knows. | |
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| Now, living things are dumb and strange; | |
| She turns away her head. | 10 |
| I think she’s more at home put here | |
| Among the speaking dead. | |
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II “Love of life,” logicians say, | |
| “Inherent passion of the race;” | |
| Yet here is what I found today | 15 |
| Upon a woman’s face: | |
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| Such longing as I have not seen | |
| Was in her thoughtful eyes, | |
| That watched a double bed of green | |
| Where but one sleeper lies. | 20 |
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III Grave-diggers are a cheerful lot: | |
| “Fine mornin’, sir,” he said. | |
| I fancied that a murmur waked | |
| Among the listening dead. | |
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| “Fine mornin’ up above,” word passed | 25 |
| From each to each below. | |
| I’m glad the digger spoke out loud; | |
| I think they like to know. | |
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