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. 11. A few of us who faltered as we fared
2. Sonnets. 16. O lovely life, how you have worn me out
3. Little Dream-Brother
4. Poplars at Night
5. In the Oculist's Anteroom

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