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!