Great trees in rows, subsided earth,
The lines of sculpted stone,
Foot sweep of parchment, winter leaves,
Twigs crack, as dry as bone.
An angel weeps with gaze fixed down,
A head in bronze relief,
Words cast in lead set out the facts,
Of persons laid beneath.
Graves are filled and stones are laid,
In death, all time has stopped,
And only those who wander here,
Hear meaning in the clock.