Rest beneath the Yew a while

hear Blackbird song and Thrushel flow,

you walked your long last lonely mile

to where all pilgrims surely go.

 

Be in your peace caressed by soil

return to life again from dust,

no winter freeze nor harvest spoiled

too harsh to quiet the springtime thrush.

 

Stone Cherubs pluck their rain-stained harps

the petal wilts as petals do,

but here is where we leave our hearts

and here is where I think of you.