The Gates of Time and Other Poems

by Frederick George Scott


 

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

5
    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,

10
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

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    The floor of God's great city.