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Written by Dorothy Parker

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 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.

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