God's Acre

’NEATH the spiring of spruces  
 Above the blue sea,  
Lo, a field of white crosses,  
 A garden of grief!  
—And a riot of roses,  
 Of red and white roses,  
Rich Death! all in blossom,  
 Fair Loss! all in leaf.  
Aye, their warm cherub-cheeks  
 To cold marble they press;  
With sweet summer-kisses  
 Dead names they caress;  
Yon tomb, see, all garlands,  
 All roses this cross!  
—So breathe, my lamenting!  
 So bloom, O my loss!