Poems: Old and New

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

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   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,

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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. [Page 95]