I died It’s says on the Chiseled Stone,
Aged 45 and quite alone,
And among the mourners that stand and grieve
With Solemn looks and Blackened Weeds;
Are friends and family all gathered by,
Some now resigned, while others cry.
They pretend to know the man that’s found,
Beneath the Soil - the Sexton’s mound.
So I watch with joy this farce at play,
For ‘Rather him than me’ they’ll say.
Their Love for me was the Placid kind,
Its climate unchanged with the flow of time.
But behind the Yew and so alone,
A figure that Weeps of Heartbreak known,
A lady I see ; Miss Mary Court,
A stay-at-Home ; the quiet sort-
Yes I’d seen her on walks, just once in a while,
‘Good Morning’ she’d say with a timid smile.
Then watch as she turns to stroll away,
I wanted to ask, ‘Are you free today’?
But I always thought she’d give no mind,
To a Soul like me ; The retiring kind.
But oh - How She Weeps;
How She Weeps.
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