Where live oaks brooded low against a wall And honeysuckle twined, I knelt alone To trace the crumbling letters of each stone Until I learned the history of all. Sweet Emily, who died at seventeen; @3He giveth His beloved sleep@1, I read Amanda, Rachel, Agatha, all dead, Cut down as wasted grain which yet is green. They all had died because they gave new life; In prim array each futile headstone stood, A monument to helpless motherhood -- @3In memory of Anne, devoted wife@1 --. I plucked a hoary falsehood from my breast Whose message read, @3The old days were the best@1. |