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. Pan-Worship
2. In the Oculist's Anteroom
3. Sonnets. 1. Man Cannot Be a Sophist to His Heart
4. Sonnets. 7. When I see two delay their wings at heaven
5. Two Choruses from “Merlin in Broceliande”

Print

1265 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version