By Arthur Stilwell
Inert and cold are the stones and cemeteries of earth,
Receptacles beyond reach, irredeemable;
How different the graveyard of our heart,
For there beloved beings lie interred,
Without disrepair to favour, eyelight, look, frown
Or characteristic mirth,
And there the people and times that have gone away,
Find a good place, of everbright rising.
Oh mute and lifeless are the shapes and sweetnesses
Encased in clay,
Or dispersed in ashes;
How alive the things and persons buried in our heart.
(Originally published St. Joseph's Messenger, Jersey City, N.J.)