Madison Cawein (1865–1914)

WHAT shall her silence keep

Under the sun?

Here, where the willows weep

And waters run;

Here, where she lies asleep,

And all is done.

Lights, when the tree-top swings;

Scents that are sown;

Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings;

And the bee’s drone:

These be her comfortings

Under the stone.

What shall watch o’er her here

When day is fled?

Here, when the night is near

And skies are red;

Here, where she lieth dear

And young and dead.

Shadows, and winds that spill

Dew, and the tune

Of the wild whippoorwill,

And the white moon,—

These be the watchers still

Over her stone.