The Stranger

Half-hidden in a graveyard, In the blackness of a yew, Where never living creature stirs, Nor sunbeam pierces through,

Is a tombstone green and crooked, Its faded legend gone, And but 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 wind that breathes Blows 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.