Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
In the Cemetery
By David Morton
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.
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.
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.
“Love of life,” logicians say,
  “Inherent passion of the race;”
Yet here is what I found today        15
  Upon a woman’s face:
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
Grave-diggers are a cheerful lot:
  “Fine mornin’, sir,” he said.
I fancied that a murmur waked
  Among the listening dead.
“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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