God's acre was her garden-spot, she said
She sat there often, of the Summer days
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead
Her hair a fable in the leveled rays

She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross
And knelt to coax about the wiry stem
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
Now it is anguish to remember them

And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
And walked a way and turned to look around
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
She shall not lie in consecrated ground