Shapes of Clay

I muse upon the distant town

In many a dreamy mood.

Above my head the sunbeams crown

The graveyard's giant rood.

The lupin blooms among the tombs.

The quail recalls her brood.

Ah, good it is to sit and trace

The shadow of the cross;

It moves so still from place to place

O'er marble, bronze and moss;

With graves to mark upon its arc

Our time's eternal loss.

And sweet it is to watch the bee

That reve's in the rose,

And sense the fragrance floating free

On every breeze that blows

O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound,

Mine enemies repose.