Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE COUNTRY GRAVEYARD, by CHARLES LOUIS HENRY WAGNER


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE COUNTRY GRAVEYARD, by                    
First Line: Close beside the winding highway
Last Line: Of god's home beyond the skies.
Subject(s): Cemeteries; Country Life; Death; Graveyards; Dead, The


Close beside the winding highway,
Part on hill and part on dale,
Lies the peaceful country graveyard,
Where the calms of Death prevail;
By its gray-tinged gleaming headstones,
Blanched by moonlight's rays to white,
Sway the long and unkempt grasses
Bowing to the breezes light.

Many stones have settled deeply,
Some are slanted, as if they
Braced themselves to stand the weary
Years which come and pass away;
Some have fallen and lie buried
In the grasses tangled maze,
Seen by none but feathered pryers,
Who indifferently gaze.

Nothing melancholy seems here,
For the sun with gladsome light
Shines on hill and dale in splendor,
And the stars peep out at night
As if they were friendly creatures
To the ghostly Time-marked stones,
While the green things grow unconscious
Of the haunts of crumbling bones.

Though the low-fenced yard may hold sad
Memories for those who still
Go there weekly with sweet posies
To mark graves upon the hill,
Yet for most of us,—mere passers,
Naught invites nor doth suggest
Of the painful thoughts which surely
Sears the souls with grief possessed.

There are no walks quite so pleasant
In the hours of afternoon,
Or in soft and golden moonlight,
As these haunts where mem'ries croon;
No depression, but sweet, peaceful,
Calm and beauty doth enthrall,
E'en the clouds which float above it
Seem to soothe the cares of all.

Somehow, few can sense the graveyard,
Or appreciate its charm,
Long have vulgar superstitions,
Morbid customs done it harm;
But to those of us who love it
There is nothing grewsome here.
All is cheerful calm and pleasant,
Naught to inculcate a fear.

Just a book, a friend, or mayhap
Pad for sketching, is delight
In the quaint old country graveyard
With its gleaming stones of white:
And I think if Dead were conscious
They would not refuse to share
Rest with undisturbing mortals
Who perchance might frequent there.

There's a charm about the graveyard,
Peace mysterious, divine,
And the antique stones have truly
Lent me thoughts with grandeur fine;
And no simple joys or pleasures
Can profane Death's symbols rife,
Any more than laughing breezes,
Or the blue-bird's happy life.

Yes, I love the country graveyard,
Somehow, it has seemed to me
That its spirit breathes a lesson
Which, when heeded, makes men free;
Free from fear, and free from worry,
For the peace Death typifies
Is that peace which passeth knowledge
Of God's home beyond the skies.





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