In the village churchyard she lies, <br />Dust is in her beautiful eyes, <br />No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; <br />At her feet and at her head <br />Lies a slave to attend the dead, <br />But their dust is white as hers. <br /> <br />Was she a lady of high degree, <br />So much in love with the vanity <br />And foolish pomp of this world of ours? <br />Or was it Christian charity, <br />And lowliness and humility, <br />The richest and rarest of all dowers? <br /> <br />Who shall tell us? No one speaks; <br />No color shoots into those cheeks, <br />Either of anger or of pride, <br />At the rude question we have asked; <br />Nor will the mystery be unmasked <br />By those who are sleeping at her side. <br /> <br />Hereafter?--And do you think to look <br />On the terrible pages of that Book <br />To find her failings, faults, and errors? <br />Ah, you will then have other cares, <br />In your own short-comings and despairs, <br />In your own secret sins and terrors!<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-churchyard-at-cambridge-birds-of-passage-flight-the-first/
