William Allingham (1824–1889)

IN dream of thought to be among the years

That are not born, like years of long ago,

Who bows not, trembling? Dusk, with steps as slow

As mine, crept through the churchyard, dropping tears

Like one that mourned. I mused and mused;—methought

Some months, some years were gone, and in that spot

Of graves is lingering a thoughtful boy.

Amid the twilight stillness, deep and lone,

He stoops, to read an old half-buried stone,

And weeds the mosses that almost destroy

The letters of the name, which is—my own.

The wind about the old gray tower makes moan.

He rises from the grave with saddened brow,

And leaves it to the night, and sighs, as I do now.