Classic Poem

I love to see at Drummondtown
Where the pines reply to the waves,
The kitchens stretch to the graveyard down
And the horses eat on the graves;
The grass that sprouts on the happy corse,
Is sweeter than jowl and greens.
And the dead men loved to eat on the horse
That the dead men's marrow gleans.

How social Death when we fear no graves
And the kitchen steams and sings,
And about the graveyard, court the slaves,
Forgetting the mournful things.
We banish far by a ghoulish force
Them who built our family seats;
Let the rider lie by his faithful horse
That sees no spooks while he eats!

The Court House cluster where they heard
The pleas where they patient lie,
No more expels the nesting bird
Than the nesting dead near by;
And it sounds so good to the dead who lay
Under their date and name,
To hear their horses graze and neigh
As they did when their masters came.

There is no peace like the earth they put,
Our coverlet, warm and last;
Buried beneath his Chariot,
Old Homer's Kings go past;
And the steeds which eat at Drummondtown
On the graves that never cloy
Are like the prints in the Iliad
Or the chariot steeds of Troy.