Requiem.

There is a place of sweet requiems,
In the fenced Churchyard low;
There with the others without dreams,
And the sweet dead rot slow.

Massive elm trees that wrap the dead,
Solemn silence serene;
Ev'ry pillow under their head,
Lies peacefully and mean.

Time has written with its own hand,
The spoils of Death lay 'round;
Yet here I walk and here I stand,
Looking at bur'ing ground.

One hundred years ago in time,
The same old Church stood tall;
The forefathers of our own clime,
Worked the fields and all.

They onward forged their weary way,
Seen long before the dawn;
Laboured 'til curfew endin' day,
Now life is dead and gone.

Some frail weak heart and gentle hand,
Of a girl still quite young;
Galloping Consumption took band,
Lie in a heap and wrung.

Like the old mute grey-headed swain,
That knew the members well;
Died in his home and now is lain,
Sixty years in his cell.

The yew and elm tree live today,
And the rest lay dead cold;
A symbol of time's endless way,
Yet we drop, die, and mold.

I'll walk around this lifeless place,
Enjoy the sounds and sky;
'Til Death plants me here in a space,
And God shall bid me fly.

Great God! How infinite art Thou,
How poor and weak I be;
Let the whole race of creatures bow,
And join the Praise to Thee!

~Timothy~

© Timothy 9 October, 2012.