The Churchyard
The churchyard quietly breathing,
The nightingale at bedside,
And evening balm is wreathing
And sighing at the cloudtide.
And stars that tread the pillow
Are all where God has bidden,
And veiled by passing mystery
The lunar face is hidden.
Where petals bow in slumber,
The dark is ever living,
Beneath a rolling Heaven,
The night is all, forgiving.