Classic Poem

ALICE GORDON GULICK

Bleak burial place of the unshriven dead,
Where exile, heretic, and felon lie:
Here never dirge is sung, nor prayer is said,
Nor priestly blessing; yet stray flowers burn red
Above great hearts that found it good to die.
The wind, complaining, may not break their rest,
For outcast and forgotten slumber deep;
But the little, nameless babies, unmothered and unblessed,
Are crying softly, softly in their sleep.

Honored to-night and hallowed is the spot,
Because of one who comes its guest to be,
Who knew no alien race nor alien lot,
Who chose her grave with these whom earth forgot,
Bringing them fellowship from over sea.
The sweet wind sings above their place of rest,
And wrong and shame and sorrow slumber deep;
And the little, nameless babies, mothered at last and blessed,
Are laughing softly, softly in their sleep.