A hundred years of the dead;
The new stones, pale as the morning’s bread
And those further back, that crowd below
A deep green shudder of the trees-
Family whose faces we never knew,
The old ones, in pieces, beneath the yew.

They linger alike at the edge of the shore
Where the world of figures and fights
washes to sand;
Where bad dreams are not things we wake from,
Perhaps,
And the second hand can never rush
The morning to your side.

So, they reside:
And I part the blades that shroud a stone
Thinking, for a second, I’d seen your name.