These piteous places, so rich, so poor!
One quaint old church at the edge of the town
Has white tombs laid to the very church door,—
White leaves in the story of life turned down.
White leaves in the story of life are these,
The low white slabs in the long strong grass,
Where Glory has emptied her hour-glass
And dreams with the dreamers beneath the trees.
I dream with the dreamers beneath the sod,
Where souls pass by to the great white throne;
I count each tomb as a mute milestone
For weary, sweet souls on their way to God.
I sit all day by the vast, strong stream,
’Mid low white slabs in the long strong grass
Where Time has forgotten for aye to pass,
To dream, and ever to dream and to dream.
This quaint old church with its dead to the door,
By the cypress swamp at the edge of the town,
So restful seems that you want to sit down
And rest you, and rest you for evermore.
And one white tomb is a lowliest tomb,
That has crept up close to the crumbling door,—
Some penitent soul, as imploring room
Close under the cross that is leaning o’er.
’T is a low white slab, and ’t is nameless, too—
Her untold story, why, who should know?
Yet God, I reckon, can read right through
That nameless stone to the bosom below.
And the roses know, and they pity her, too;
They bend their heads in the sun or rain,
And they read, and they read, and then read again,
As children reading strange pictures through.
Why, surely her sleep it should be profound;
For oh the apples of gold above!
And oh the blossoms of bridal love!
And oh the roses that gather around!
The sleep of a night, or a thousand morns?
Why what is the difference here, to-day?
Sleeping and sleeping the years away
With all earth’s roses, and none of its thorns.