POETRY
GRAVEYARD -AMONG MOUNTAINS
SEF. the mountain people fallen asleep in the valley; Here are old wives who have laid their knitting by, And shepherds who need shade their eyes no longer Scanning a morning or an evening sky: Farmers who toiled late, for the harvest moon was waniag, And strong-armed ploughmen who grew old and grey, Now they have unyoked their last team of oxen,— And here are little children grown tired of play . . All of them, old or young, were only little children, All have fallen asleep now at the end of the day.
Seed the grey church-on. the green hill above them, A mother who watches and croons and drones Over her cradle. You say, Butrain is falling, And the mother Jets the rain drench her children's bones. Ah, more than rain, my friend! Yet she will guard them, Will keep the cold and the midnight. wolf at bay, Guarding her children, and when the sun is risen, I think she will give them a longer time to play . . . l'hough you are doubtful, we need not quarrel, remembering, After all, we are little children even as they.
W. Fon& STEAD.
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