Eliza Rose
Wind-gathered winter leaves hide the worn
Inscription; the birth, the death the epitaph
On show for all who take this path
To know Sir John is buried here
Beneath his coat of arms.
This baronet, the eigth in line,
Esteemed to serve his king or queen,
A gentleman of East India's refined
Who sojourned and often richly dined
At home in Berkley Square
Now companion to the chafer, the cadys,
And the countless creeping crawling things,
While passers by have come and gone
Without admiring glances
Since eighteen thirty one.
To line the row beside sir John
Writ great and good in Portland stone
The largest slabs bear names long gone:
A Thomas and a William, an Elizabeth
And a James.
The births, the deaths and all the
Dear belovedness, now mossed
And mildewed, chafed by morning frost,
And slimed by creeping slugs across
Each cold grave table top.
But there by winter's Flowering Cherry
Near Purple Hazel and Norway's Maple
Beside the yew with scarlet berry,
Stands a smaller upright stone,
Beloved daughter to John and Mary.
Eliza Rose, just fourteen years of age:
'Early bright and transient,
Chaste as morning dew, she sparkled,
Was exhal'd and went her way to heaven',
To the saviour that she knew.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
