Classic Poem

The low graves are all grown over
With forget-me-nots,
And a rich-green grass
Links each with each.
Old family vaults,
Some within railings,
Stand here and there,
Crumbling, moss-eaten,
With the ivy growing up them
And diagonally across
The top projecting slab.
And over the vaults
Lean the great lilac bushes,
With their heart-shaped leaves
And their purple and white blossom.
A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness
Of the elm-wood and the larches.

Walk quietly
Along the mossy paths;
The stones of the humble dead
Are hidden behind the blue mantle
Of their forget-me-nots;
And before one grave so hidden
A widow kneels, with head bowed,
And the crape falling
Over her shoulders.

The bells for evening church are ringing,
And the people come gravely
And with red, sunburnt faces
Through the gates in the wall.

Pass on;
This is the church porch,
And within the bell-ringers,
Men of the village in their Sunday clothes,
Pull their bob-major
On the red and white grip
Of the bell-ropes, that fly up,
And then fall snakily.
They stand there given wholly
To the rhythm and swing
Of their traditional movements.

And the people pass between them
Into the church;
But we are too sad and too reverent