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. Three Miles to Penn
3. Sonnets. 1. Man Cannot Be a Sophist to His Heart
4. Sonnets. 2. O Spare Me from the Hand of Niggard Love
5. Never-Known

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