Oblivion
Green moss will creepAlong the shady graves where we shall sleep.
Each year will bringAnother brood of birds to nest and sing.
At dawn will goNew ploughmen to the fields we used to know.
Night will call homeThe hunter from the hills we loved to roam.
She will not ask,The milkmaid, singing softly at her task,
Nor will she careTo know if I were brave or you were fair.
No one will thinkWhat chalice life had offered us to drink,
When from our clayThe sun comes back to kiss the snow away.