They did not trouble to wind them round

In a sheet of earth in the dewy ground,

They looted them both for the spoil they found.

But the wind was kind. It wailed aloud

And churned the dust, till it rose a cloud

like a pearly mist, to form a shroud.

And the leaves swooned down to the wind's sweet call

And covered the mother and babe and all,

Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall.

The church still ponders, and wonders when

Those bodies will rise from her graveyard pen,

But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men,

For they sleep within her Christian fold

Under her consecrated mould,

Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told.

But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere,

Lie a mother and child all stark and bare,

Save only a comb in the coal-black hair—

Yet God will remember they lie out there.

CONTENTS

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