WEARY
Here, in the silent churchyard, ’mid a thousand dead, alone.
Weary I sit for a moment clasping this cross of stone,
Weary of worldly passions of selfishness, greed, and sin.
Grant me the shade of thy wings, O Death, for I would rest within.
Weary of smiling faces when the heart is like to break.
Of lips that are too silent when they long the while to speak,
Of tears that fall from eyes too young, of quivering lips that laugh.
Of the ceaseless clatter of tongues, who plead in none save their own behalf.
O desolate grave beside me, by pity and love forgot,
The calm eyes of peace watch o’er you — I hunger for such a spot;
The tender sprays of ivy, that clung to your cross alone,
Have died in the spring of their living, and turned like it to stone;
