Words go unheeded on the acre's hill; Gray stones inscribed to mark a resting place; As though they cared! The workers who are still With folded hands and smile upon cold face, You might have pleased them with a kindly word Or small remembrance on a special day; But now, no word of yours is faintly heard, No eyelash turned because of what you say. Go plant your stones! If that will ease your pain; Take costly flowers to the ones who died; Plant shrubs and trees to shelter them from rain And scatter gold along the country side. But if you have a loved one, living still -- Push back the past, and share an autumn hill! |