Oh,how sad it is for you to rot here with whom in the day you never knew,
And those chilled to clay met not your view
Will in the distant grave-place ever neighbour you,
No shade of trees while the earth endures
Will fall on your mound and within the hours steal onto thee,
Some organ may sound on Sunday noon by where you lie,
Some other thrill the panes with other tunes where you moulder,
The simply cut memorial at your head perhaps may take,
A rusty form. And that above your bed a stately make ,
And in monotonous moils of strained ,hard run humanity,
The enternal tie which binds us twain in one no one will see,
Stretching accross the miles that sever you from me ,
As you could not stop for death
But he kindly stopped for you
© @wild poet