_In The Churchyard._

As now my feet are straying Where all the dead are lying, O trees, what are ye saying That sets my soul a-sighing?

Your sound is as the weeping Of one that dreads the morrow, Or sob of sad heart sleeping For fulness of its sorrow.

Methinks your rootlets, groping Beneath the dark earth’s layers, Have found the doubt and hoping, The blasphemies and prayers,

Of hearts that here are feeding The worm; and now, in pity, Ye storm with interceding The floor of God’s great city.