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