Is a tombstone green and crooked, Its faded legend gone, And but one rain-worn cherub's head To sing of the unknown.
There, when the dusk is falling, Silence broods so deep It seems that every wind that breathes Blows from the fields of sleep?
Day breaks in heedless beauty, Kindling each drop of dew, But unforsaking shadow dwells Beneath this lonely yew.
And, all else lost and faded, Only this listening head Keeps with a strange unanswering smile Its secret with the dead.
Never more, Sailor, Shalt thou be Tossed on the wind-ridden, Restless sea. Its tides may labour; All the world Shake 'neath that weight Of waters hurled: But its whole shock Can only stir Thy dust to a quiet Even quieter. Thou mock'd'st at land Who now art come To such a small And shallow home; Yet bore the sea Full many a care For bones that once A sailor's were. And though the grave's Deep soundlessness Thy once sea-deafened Ear distress, No robin ever On the deep Hopped with his song To haunt thy sleep.
Weary went the old Witch, Weary of her pack, She sat her down by the churchyard wall, And jerked it off her back.
The cord brake, yes, the cord brake, Just where the dead did lie, And Charms and Spells and Sorceries Spilled out beneath the sky.
Weary was the old Witch; She rested her old eyes From the lantern-fruited yew trees, And the scarlet of the skies;
And out the dead came stumbling, From every rift and crack, Silent as moss, and plundered The gaping pack.
They wish them, three times over, Away they skip full soon: Bat and Mole and Leveret, Under the rising moon;
Owl and Newt and Nightjar: They take their shapes and creep, Silent as churchyard lichen, While she squats asleep.
All of these dead were stirring: Each unto each did call, 'A Witch, a Witch is sleeping Under the churchyard wall;
'A Witch, a Witch is sleeping....' The shrillness ebbed away; And up the way-worn moon clomb bright, Hard on the track of day.
She shone, high, wan and silvery; Day's colours paled and died: And, save the mute and creeping worm, Nought else was there beside.
Names may be writ; and mounds rise; Purporting, Here be bones: But empty is that churchyard Of all save stones.
Owl and Newt and Nightjar, Leveret, Bat and Mole Haunt and call in the twilight, Where she slept, poor soul.