IN A GRAVEYARD

by: John Hay (1838-1905)

N the dewy depths of the graveyard

I lie in the tangled grass,

And watch, in the sea of azure,

The white cloud-islands pass.

 

The birds in the rustling branches

Sing gayly overhead;

Gray stones like sentinel spectres

Are guarding the silent dead.

 

The early flowers sleep shaded

In the cool green noonday glooms;

The broken light falls shuddering

On the cold white face of the tombs.

 

Without, the world is smiling

In the infinite love of God,

But the sunlight fails and falters

When it falls on the churchyard sod.

 

On me the joyous rapture

Of a heart's first love is shed,

But it falls on my heart as coldly

As sunlight on the dead.

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