Chapter I

The long, dark slope is topped with mist,
But here the sun is on the grass:
Beneath, the sea-waves break, and twist
Backward like snakes of molten glass.

Across an ancient sand-heaped wall
The foot thro' graves forgotten goes,
And stops where old, old voices call
Thro' generations of repose.

But where a sorrow of to-day
Has set a freshly-fashioned mound,
A bird slides down his airy way
And makes the silence ring with sound.