In Nunhead Cemetery

It is the clay that makes the earth stick to his spade;He fills in holes like this year after year;The others have gone; they were tired, and half afraid,But I would rather be standing here;

There is nowhere else to go. I have seen this placeFrom the windows of the train that’s going pastAgainst the sky. This is rain on my face--It was raining here when I saw it last.

There is something horrible about a flower;This, broken in my hand, is one of thoseHe threw in just now: it will not live another hour;There are thousands more: you do not miss a rose.

One of the children hanging aboutPointed at the whole dreadful heap and smiledThis morning, after THAT was carried out;There is something terrible about a child.

We were like children, last week, in the Strand;That was the day you laughed at meBecause I tried to make you understandThe cheap, stale chap I used to beBefore I saw the things you made me see.

This is not a real place; perhaps by-and-byI shall wake--I am getting drenched with all this rain:To-morrow I will tell you about the eyes of the CrystalPalace trainLooking down on us, and you will laugh and I shallsee what you see again.

Not here, not now. We said “Not yetAcross our low stone parapetWill the quick shadows of the sparrows fall.”But still it was a lovely thingThrough the grey months to wait for SpringWith the birds that go a-gypsyingIn the parks till the blue seas call.And next to these, you used to careFor the lions in Trafalgar Square,Who’ll stand and speak for London when her bell of Judgmenttolls--And the gulls at Westminster there wereThe old sea-captains’ souls.To-day again the brown tide splashes, step by step, the river stair,And the gulls are there!

By a month we have missed our Day:The children would have hung aboutRound the carriage and over the wayAs you and I came out.

We should have stood on the gulls’ black cliffs and heard the seaAnd seen the moon’s white track,I would have called, you would have come to meAnd kissed me back.

You have never done that: I do not knowWhy I stood staring at your bedAnd heard you, though you spoke so low,But could not reach your hands, your little head.There was nothing we could not do, you said,And you went, and I let you go!

Now I will burn you back, I will burn you through,Though I am damned for it we two will lieAnd burn, here where the starlings flyTo these white stones from the wet sky--;Dear, you will say this is not I--It would not be you, it would not be you!

If for only a little whileYou will think of it you will understand,If you will touch my sleeve and smileAs you did that morning in the StrandI can wait quietly with youOr go away if you want me to--God! What is God? but your face has gone and your hand!Let me stay here too.

When I was quite a little ladAt Christmas time we went half madFor joy of all the toys we had,And then we used to sing about the sheepThe shepherds watched by night;We used to pray to Christ to keepOur small souls safe till morning light--;I am scared, I am staying with you to-night--Put me to sleep.

I shall stay here: here you can see the sky;The houses in the streets are much too high;There is no one left to speak to there;Here they are everywhere,And just above them fields and fields of roses lie--If he would dig it all up again they would not die.