The winds blew faintly across the bleak field,
The breezes filtered in through the old oak;
The ancient pile of stones and wood was seal'd,
The last of the sunsets rays to me spoke.
That heap of rock, the Church, was dead and cold,
No lamp-light within ne'er glowed or shown;
All was solemn in the Churchyard so old,
Leaves were tossed about the stones and blown.
The uncouth rhymes upon the headstones wrote,
The mounds of earth and sunken beds were found;
Some broken slates and rustic ones were smote,
By stray people ne'er looking at the ground.
Yet ev'n these tokens of those that now lay,
Inside the cells of timeless mute requiem;
Reminds us of the time when we decay,
And take to sleep without a single dream.
Hark! The lone Barn Owl hissing on the night,
The melancholy of its own sad lay;
Made short the span of his own dreary flight,
Stops for a break to hunt 'til break of day.
These rest their head upon the lap of earth,
Mouldering now they are perhaps unknown;
They were ne'er blest with a rich noble birth,
The shrine of Death now claims them for her own.
Run down like washed up ship-wrecks from the sea,
Some frail memorials still slanted nigh,
With the last curfew bells tolled o'er the lea
And the hush'd mute sounds of the dark night sigh.
Like the moans from yonder agèd Church tow'rs,
The crickets drone away the waning night,
Nothing 'round but darkness and dried up flow'rs,
And the moon shines full now with all his might.
Perhaps in this sequestered spot is laid,
An artist of his talent was he stripped;
A pair of hands the country might have swayed,
But chill Death the breath of Life from them ripped.
Old yew trees now wrapt all about the bones,
Will one day wrap the rest of us as they;
With only a cold dark cell and head-stones,
On us like them their pleasing roots will prey.
When the dead rise out of their coffins low,
And the host of Heaven fills up the sky;
And Michael from his shofar trump doth blow,
The dead shall rise to the realms upon high.
Let this mortal body droop, fail, and die;
Let it sink deep into the clover sod,
In times to come our Ransom from the sky,
The Messiah will take us home to God!
~Timothy~
The breezes filtered in through the old oak;
The ancient pile of stones and wood was seal'd,
The last of the sunsets rays to me spoke.
That heap of rock, the Church, was dead and cold,
No lamp-light within ne'er glowed or shown;
All was solemn in the Churchyard so old,
Leaves were tossed about the stones and blown.
The uncouth rhymes upon the headstones wrote,
The mounds of earth and sunken beds were found;
Some broken slates and rustic ones were smote,
By stray people ne'er looking at the ground.
Yet ev'n these tokens of those that now lay,
Inside the cells of timeless mute requiem;
Reminds us of the time when we decay,
And take to sleep without a single dream.
Hark! The lone Barn Owl hissing on the night,
The melancholy of its own sad lay;
Made short the span of his own dreary flight,
Stops for a break to hunt 'til break of day.
These rest their head upon the lap of earth,
Mouldering now they are perhaps unknown;
They were ne'er blest with a rich noble birth,
The shrine of Death now claims them for her own.
Run down like washed up ship-wrecks from the sea,
Some frail memorials still slanted nigh,
With the last curfew bells tolled o'er the lea
And the hush'd mute sounds of the dark night sigh.
Like the moans from yonder agèd Church tow'rs,
The crickets drone away the waning night,
Nothing 'round but darkness and dried up flow'rs,
And the moon shines full now with all his might.
Perhaps in this sequestered spot is laid,
An artist of his talent was he stripped;
A pair of hands the country might have swayed,
But chill Death the breath of Life from them ripped.
Old yew trees now wrapt all about the bones,
Will one day wrap the rest of us as they;
With only a cold dark cell and head-stones,
On us like them their pleasing roots will prey.
When the dead rise out of their coffins low,
And the host of Heaven fills up the sky;
And Michael from his shofar trump doth blow,
The dead shall rise to the realms upon high.
Let this mortal body droop, fail, and die;
Let it sink deep into the clover sod,
In times to come our Ransom from the sky,
The Messiah will take us home to God!
~Timothy~
© Timothy 5 October, 2012.
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