Siwash Graves

Here in their tiny gayly painted homes They sleep, these small dead people of the streams, Their names unknown, their deeds forgot, Their by-gone battles lost in dreams. A few short days and we who laugh Will be as still, will lie as low As utterly in dark as they who rot Here where the roses blow. They fought, and loved, and toiled, and died, As all men do, and all men must. Of what avail? we at the end Fall quite as shapelessly to dust.