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 WESTMINSTER CHURCHYARD

(Edgar Allan Poe)

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

Stone calls to stone, and roof to roof; Dust unto dust;— Lo, in the midst, starry, aloof— Like white of April blown by last year's stalks Across the gust— A Presence walks.

It is the Shape of Song; About it throng, Great Others, and the first is Tears; The ended years; And every old and every lonely thing; Old thirsts that to old hungers cry; The poignancies of earth and sky; The little sobbing of the spring.

He heeds them not; They are forgot; For him, behind this ancient wall, The Best of all— The short day sped; A roof; a bed; No years; No tears.

Not his the strain Of hill or lane; Of orchards with their humble country musk,