So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade, <br />Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day, <br />The pleasing pictures of the present fade, <br />And like a summer vapour steal away! <br /> <br />And have not they, who here forgotten lie <br />(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past!) <br />Once marked thy shadow with delighted eye, <br />Nor thought it fled, how certain, and how fast! <br /> <br />Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept, <br />Noting each hour, o'er mouldering stones beneath; <br />The pastor and his flock alike have slept, <br />And dust to dust proclaimed the stride of death. <br /> <br />Another race succeeds, and counts the hour, <br />Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile, <br />As hope, and youth, and life, were in our power; <br />So smiling and so perishing the while. <br /> <br />I heard the village bells, with gladsome sound, <br />When to these scenes a stranger I drew near, <br />Proclaim the tidings to the village round, <br />While memory wept upon the good man's bier. <br /> <br />Even so, when I am dead, shall the same bells <br />Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone; <br />While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells, <br />And strangers gaze upon my humble stone! <br /> <br />Enough, if we may wait in calm content, <br />The hour that bears us to the silent sod; <br />Blameless improve the time that heaven has lent, <br />And leave the issue to thy will, O God!<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sun-dial-in-the-churchyard-of-bremhill/
