THE fog inrolling, dark and still Lies deep upon the crowded dead As flooding sea upon the sands, And quenches starlight overhead.
Long have they slept. Their separate dust Has mingled with a nameless mould.
Only the slower-crumbling stones Still tell so much as may be told.
And now in shoreless fog adrift Like some lone mariner gliding by, I lean above the drowning graves And wonder when I too shall lieWhere evermore the tides of night And earth will hide my lonely rest;And Time will bid my love forget To read the stone upon my breast.
G. O. WARREN
