by Luis G. Dato
How quiet grow the grass and how tall
Which I pass by along a lonely road,
How sleep the dead in their last, sad abode,
Enclosed by reeds, the ruined, grass-grown wall
That all constrict the heart, the mind appall —
Death has his method which the brave has cowed,
Depressing mirth and humbling mortals proud,
Who know that they must hear some day his call.
For, love, forget not we are made of clay,
And unto earth eventually must turn,
Into the world allowed our passing day,
The life we live is brief, this we soon learn,
And to the worms, the grass we can’t say nay,
Nor the sojourn from which there’s no return.