Marjorie Allen Seiffert

HERE lies a lady

Who smothered before she died—

Crushing every impulse of her soul

For prudence sake.

Only her body lived

To be buried.

Sacred to the memory

Of a genius who lied

From necessity, from pleasure, and from habit.

If this be his soul, this sturdy shade,

Perverse but virile even in death,

He will deny it.

III

Here sleeps

Earth’s hungry child.

Beautiful lady,

Even death is your courtly lover,

Bearing you in his arms to infinity

With tenderness.

Here lies a man

Who wasted in a hundred places

A bit of his soul.

Yet even now it has a certain life,

Like the vague sighing

Of a multitude of insects

Dancing in the twilight.

Her spirit, a shining blade

Piercing her breast,

Pierced even the veil of death.

And we who knew her know

It never can lie sheathed

In eternal mist.

VII

A man lies here

Who took sport seriously,

Forgetting life.

His soul, like a lost ball,

Lies happy as a field mouse,

Or a cricket,

In the long grass.

VIII

Here lies one

Whose glowing faith,

Shouting hosannas through the dark,

Shall see its God

Even as the sprouting grain

The sun.