Charles Edwin Markham (1852–1940)

THE SPIRIT of Earth, with glad restoring hands,

Mid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm gropes,

And mosses mantle and the bright flower opes;

But Death the Plowman wanders in all lands,

And to the last of Earth his furrow stands:

The grave is never hidden; fearful hopes

Follow the dead upon the fading slopes,

And there wild memories meet upon the sands.

When willows fling their banners to the plain,

When rumor of wind and sound of sudden showers

Disturb the dream of winter—all in vain

The grasses hurry to the graves, the flowers

Toss their wild torches on their windy towers;

Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the rain.