The Mountain Chapel
CHAPEL and gravestones, old and few,Are shrouded by a mountain foldFrom sound and viewOf life. The loss of the brook's voiceFalls like a shadow. All they hear isThe eternal noiseOf wind whistling in grass more shrillThan aught as human as a sword,And saying still:"'Tis but a moment since man's birthAnd in another moment moreMan lies in earthFor ever; but I am the sameNow, and shall be, even as I wasBefore he came;Till there is nothing I shall be."Yet there the sun shines after noonSo cheerfullyThe place almost seems peopled, norLacks cottage chimney, cottage hearth:It is not moreIn size than is a cottage, lessThan any other empty homeIn homeliness.It has a garden of wild flowersAnd finest grass and gravestones warmIn sunshine hoursThe year through. Men behind the glassStand once a week, singing, and drownThe whistling grassTheir ponies munch. And yet somewhere,Near or far off, there's a man couldBe happy here,Or one of the gods perhaps, were theyNot of inhuman stature dire,As poets sayWho have not seen them clearly; ifAt sound of any wind of the worldIn grass-blades stiffThey would not startle and shudder coldUnder the sun. When gods were youngThis wind was old.
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