A Grave Poem by Louisa Lawson

In a quiet country churchyard, where lilies grow tali
and white,
And vie with the moist red roses in luring the bees
to light.
And the big ripe briar berry, r&inwashed and sweet and
gay.
Tempts, with the native cherry, the bright little birds to
stay.
Where butterflies black as aces detour from their dainty
cones,
To beauty spot sculptured faces, and blot the white mar
ble stones.
There is in the path you enter this ideal burial plot,
'Twixt the gate and thc chu chyard centre, one badly ne
glec'ed spot.
A large heap claims the holdiiçg and spreads itself out
and around,
As if in its girth enfolding ateeasure trove 'neath the
ground.
No cross does it own-or coping, no verdure or even
Shade,
Set, solid, and Bhield-like sloping, enduring and unde
cayed,
For time does not seem to lessen this heap of unsightly
stonr s,
Ncr caused it to sink or press on Its keeping of rrame
leHs bones.
Who is he, I thought, that spurneth the iffortsof time to
blight,
Wiirj is he that mutely tnrneth all steps to the lei* and
right ?
I asked for the cha« and read on te pages yellow and
stiff :
' A Hermit, unknown, found dead on rocks at ne oot
of the cliff '