Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
At an Unmarked MoundAlexander Macphail (18701949)
D
I guess, when springtime and the streamlets call,
Even though, the while, her ever-thickening pall
Is wrought by the deft needles of the firs.
Ashes to ashes: still, I fancy hers
Must glow if any human breath at all
Shall breathe upon them, though the winter fall
A fathom deep, and doubly sure inters.
Yet if a human child but shed a tear
For her, she rises, answering tears with mirth,
To roam through pastures green the livelong year;
So she lives on, till, in a little time,
All living turns to earth: earth unto earth.