Poems (Curwen)/God's Acre

by Annie Isabel Curwen

God's Acre.

Rampside.

The warm wind gently waves the long green grass
 Within 'God's Acre,' as with reverent tread,
Slowly and meditatively, we pass
 The quiet resting places of the dead.

From blue bright skies the sun shines warmly down,
 Flooding the old graveyard with golden light,
Shining on lowly mound, and worn grey stone,
 On marble cross, and gleaming headstone white.

The hush of peace, of perfect peace, is here,
 No sound disturbs the stillness, strangely still,
Save song of birds; no sign of life is near,
 Save reapers busy on a distant hill.

And as I pause by one familiar tomb—
 Where marguerites in snowy vesture drest,
In all their loveliness unsullied bloom—
 Wondering if they, the sleepers, are at rest.

Sweet Eva, clinging to her father's hand,
 Her brows bound round with flowers of Paradise,
Comes smilingly from out the Shadowland,
 The light of life immortal in her eyes.

Time was I would have shrank in awe and fear
 From the abode of death, as one of gloom;
But now I love to sit and linger here
 Knowing 'God's Acre' is the ante-room

That opens into Life's great entrance hall,
 And here our friends must wait, and lay aside
Their outer garments, ere the Master's call
 Shall summon them to rise, and 'Come inside.'