Classic Poem

Here to the leeward of this Roman mound
The wind is quiet
As any battle-shout that shook the ground
Long ago nigh it.

Here the dead sleep in bones through centuries
With earth for flesh,
Their own long woven in flower-tapestries
And turf's green mesh.

No bugle shatters sleep for them, so surely
They keep the peace;
I in their old decease mourn prematurely
My own at ease.