The Poetess Of Heptonstall

This high, half-hidden, churchyard
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.

The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.

But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.

Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?