Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
In Trinity Churchyard at SunsetThomas S. Jones, Jr.
H
In their old churchyard with its sighing trees,
Where sometimes through the din a twilight breeze
Makes one forget the busy streets of toil;
But they have little thought of worldly spoil
Or the great gain of mortal victories,
Their hopes, their dreams, are cold and dead as these
Quaint, time-worn gravestones crumbling on the soil.
Their hearts beat madly as these hearts of ours—
And now is all undone in dreamless rest?
See, a great city stands against the glow—
Their city, they who here beneath the flowers
Have known so long God’s gift of peace, most blest!