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WESTMINSTER CHURCHYARD
(Edgar Allan Poe)
LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE
Stone calls to stone, and roof to roof;
Dust unto dust;—
Lo, in the midst, starry, aloof—
Like white of April blown by last year's stalks
Across the gust—
A Presence walks.
It is the Shape of Song;
About it throng,
Great Others, and the first is Tears;
The ended years;
And every old and every lonely thing;
Old thirsts that to old hungers cry;
The poignancies of earth and sky;
The little sobbing of the spring.
He heeds them not;
They are forgot;
For him, behind this ancient wall,
The Best of all—
The short day sped;
A roof; a bed;
No years;
No tears.
Not his the strain
Of hill or lane;
Of orchards with their humble country musk,
