I push the little gate aside,
I leave behind all human pride,
For here the grass is waving wide.
With careless eye I read each name
That seems to crave a moment's claim
From dull oblivion's heavy blame.
And underneath in quiet lie,
With faces to the silent sky,
The villagers of times gone by.
Vain hope! They cannot come again;
They hold no place in field or glen,
Nor in the daily talk of men.
Only, perchance, when nights are long,
And fires in shepherds' cots are strong,
Between the pauses of a song
A name or two may rise and fall,
But half remembered at the call—
A moment's pause, and that is all.
Enough, they lived their little life,
Where pleasant ways and speech were rife,
Far from the city's grinding strife.
A simple faith, to soothe and guide,
Was theirs from youth to manhood's pride,
And closed their eyelids when they died.
I pace a little farther on,
Then pause beside a simple stone,
Where all the grass is overgrown;
A simple stone whose records keep
The tender names of those that sleep,
Unheeding time that still will creep.
With dull slow footsteps over all
They sleep, nor answer any call,
Close to the old, grey churchyard wall.
I read each name through misty tears,
Their pilgrimage of weary years,
With all its little hopes and fears.
At length I reach my father's name,
An open space below the same
That waits for mine—that space I claim.