Don’t whisper under ancient limbs of yew
where cherished breath of past must surely go,
or bid the daffodil to dip and bow
to spirits bound in sanctuary below
There is no death within these marbled tombs;
no melancholy legacies to own.
Rejoice! It is but night that casts the gloom,
for souls that brushed this earth are long since flown.
The Mourning Dove expels a sad lament
to you and I, where roses lie on stone,
indifferent to the drift of time’s intent.
The circle turns, forever going home.