Carriage Ride Through a Graveyard
Eight hooves clip-clopping down a bleak, winding road;
Two horses pull your carriage to your new abode.
Wrought-iron pickets standing like sharp spears;
Whispers and weeping, a mourning dove hears.
Overhanging overcast shrouds the sky in gray;
Asserting its dominion, keeping each sunray.
An old hound whines, watching the march of black—
As you lie comfortably still on your back.
How the chapel’s low, tolling bell rings solemnly;
And twelve, ebon spokes of each wheel roll on swiftly.
Through the arched gates and up to the lonely crest
There is a plot where you may forever rest.
Familiar and friendly visages follow from behind;
Of pleasant stories and recollections, do they remind.
‘Shan’t you dear friends join me on this melancholy day?’
‘Why are you all mute? Have you not anything to say?’
Ravens congregate above, on a rotting elm.
Their ceaseless caws do resonate and overwhelm.
Limestone and granite slabs sinking in the dark soil
And around each one does a gossamer fog coil.
Top hats, cravats, bonnets, and veils shadowy and glum;
‘Why,’ you ask, ‘are you all clothed so grave and drearisome?’
But as the carriage slowly stops, your bed is taken down;
You see each weeping woman dressed in her funeral gown.
‘Now I know,’ you sigh and murmur, as your coffin closes.
‘This was my farewell ride, and I’m the one who reposes.’
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