The City Of The Dead

The myriad crosses, and stone cherubs rise
Above the unkempt, grass-bedraggled graves—
A drunken tombstone fllaunts the passing eyes
Its lying legend, where the thistle waves.
The strong sun beats on grave and crucifix,
As striving yet to reach with warming rays
The city's burghers lying chill. One picks
A bunch of flowers and thinks of other days—
"O God! that these were sensient bodies then, Knew
love and laughter and the ways of men,
Beheld clear-eyed the forms of friends in mirth,
And felt this pulsing life, this daylong thrill
Of being; passed too soon from their loved earth
To what cold heaven, life desirous still"

—C. G. Watson.