The Family Burying Ground

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep, Old, chronicled grave-stones of its dead, On which oblivion's mosses creep And lichens gray as lead.

Warm days, the lost cows, as they pass, Rest here and browse the juicy grass That springs about its sun-scorched stones; Afar one hears their bells' deep brass Waft melancholy tones.

Here the wild morning-glory goes A-rambling, and the myrtle grows; Wild morning-glories, pale as pain, With holy urns, that hint at woes, The night hath filled with rain.

Here are the largest berries seen, Rich, winey-dark, whereon the lean Black hornet sucks; noons, sick with heat, That bend not to the shadowed green The heavy, bearded wheat.

At night, for its forgotten dead, A requiem, of no known wind said, Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs, While to the starlight overhead The shivering screech-owl sobs.