A Churchyard Near the Shore

Hark from the tombs a whisper'd sound,
       My ears attend the utter'd cry;
       My mouth is open, cracked, and dry,
"Ye living men come view the ground,

"Where you like us must shortly lie!"
       The sound then faded all was still;
       All was calm on that dark hill,
I know I too one day will die.

The moping owl to the moon wails,
       Just like an one as you or I;
       I feel dust stinging in my eye,
I faintly see the ship that sails.

O thou grim darkness bid me peace,
       Come not to take another soul;
       Or dash our feeble, humble goal,
Upon the shoals and then ye cease.

Those phantom ships that wind drives o'er,
       The churning waters from the bay;
       The waters dashest them and lay,
Then heaves them to and from no more.

I've had enough of thy dark gloom,
       I walk away through misty night;
       I grope my way with all my might,
Only one day be stalked by doom!

Silence! Ye wand'rings of this kind,
       Leave hence I pray before the day;
       Move on by some dead other way,
Lift off of me this morbid mind!

~Timothy~

© Timothy 13 October, 2012