Poem by Eleanor Farjeon

A Burying

I see the twelve fair months go by
Bearing a coffin shoulder-high.
What, laughing? Pretty pall-bearers,
Pitiless of the buried years,
Have ye never a tear to shed
Nor sigh to drop for the newly-dead,
Nor marble grief to mark his grave?--
No, none of these; but see, we have
Green seed to mingle with his earth.--
What, is not this a burying?---- Nay, a birth.

1. Sonnets. 12. I hear love answer: Since within the mesh
2. Sonnets. 17. My Little Dream, My Momentary Dream
3. Sonnets. 10. What is this anguish then that always stands
4. Myfanwy Among the Leaves
5. When You Say

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