David Morton

I NEVER come here but I see

This same old woman, wearing years

That bear her head and shoulders down;

Her eyes are dry of tears.

Each headstone has some tale for her,

From each to each she goes.

They tell her things she understands

About the folks she knows.

Now, living things are dumb and strange;

She turns away her head.

I think she’s more at home put here

Among the speaking dead.

“Love of life,” logicians say,

“Inherent passion of the race;”

Yet here is what I found today

Upon a woman’s face:

Such longing as I have not seen

Was in her thoughtful eyes,

That watched a double bed of green

Where but one sleeper lies.

III

Grave-diggers are a cheerful lot:

“Fine mornin’, sir,” he said.

I fancied that a murmur waked

Among the listening dead.

“Fine mornin’ up above,” word passed

From each to each below.

I’m glad the digger spoke out loud;

I think they like to know.