Half-hidden in a grave yard,
In the blackness of a yew,
Where never living creatur stirs,
Nor sunbeam pierces through'
Is a tomb-stone, green and crooked -
Its faded legend gone -
With one rain-worn cherub's head
To sing of the unknown.
There, when the dusk is falling,
Silence broods so deep
It seems that every air that breathes
Sighs from the fields of sleep.
Day breaks in heedless beauty,
Kindling each drop of dew,
But unforsaking shadow dwells
Beneath this lonely yew
And, all else lost and faded,
Only this listening head
Keeps with a strange unanswering smile
Its secret with the dead.
Walter De La Mare
(Walter De La Mare is the pen name, Walter Ramal;
much of his writing was nominally for children.)
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