FOUR straight brick walls, severely plain, <br />A quiet city square surround; <br />A level space of nameless graves,— <br />The Quakers' burial-ground. <br /> <br />In gown of gray, or coat of drab, <br />They trod the common ways of life, <br />With passions held in sternest leash, <br />And hearts that knew not strife. <br /> <br />To yon grim meeting-house they fared, <br />With thoughts as sober as their speech, <br />To voiceless prayer, to songless praise, <br />To hear the elders preach. <br /> <br />Through quiet lengths of days they came <br />With scarce a change to this repose; <br />Of all life's loveliness they took <br />The thorn without the rose. <br /> <br />But in the porch and o'er the graves, <br />Glad rings the southward robin's glee, <br />And sparrows fill the autumn air <br />With merry mutiny; <br /> <br />While on the graves of drab and gray <br />The red and gold of autumn lie, <br />And wilful Nature decks the sod <br />In gentlest mockery.<br /><br />Silas Weir Mitchell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-quaker-graveyard/
