In Death Divided
I shall rot here, with those whom in their dayYou never knew,And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay,Met not my view,Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.
No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower,While earth endures,Will fall on my mound and within the hourSteal on to yours;One robin never haunt our two green covertures.
Some organ may resound on Sunday noonsBy where you lie,Some other thrill the panes with other tunesWhere moulder I;No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.
The simply-cut memorial at my headPerhaps may takeA Gothic form, and that above your bedBe Greek in make;No linking symbol show thereon for our tale’s sake.
And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-runHumanity,The eternal tie which binds us twain in oneNo eye will seeStretching across the miles that sever you from me.
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