H alf-hidden in a grave yard,

In the blackness of a yew,

Where never living creature stirs,

Nor sunbeam pierces through'

Is a tomb-stone, green and crooked

Its faded legend gone With one rain-worn cherub's head

To sing of the unknown. There, when the dusk is falling,

Silence broods so deep It seems that every air that breathes

Sighs from the fields of sleep.

Day breaks in heedless beauty,

Kindling each drop of dew, But unforsaking shadow dwells

Beneath this lonely yew,

And, all else lost and faded,

Only this listening head,

Keeps with a strange unanswering smile

Its secret with the dead

By Walter De La Mare (1873-1956).

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