God's acre was her garden-spot, she said;
 She sat there often, of the Summer days,
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead,
 Her hair a fable in the leveled rays.

She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross,
 And knelt to coax about the wiry stem.
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
 Now it is anguish to remember them.

And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
 And walked a way and turned to look around-
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
 She shall not lie in consecrated ground.