Fifty Years

At the ancient burying-ground, Spirits overhead Hover happily around Gardens of the dead. Nightly living lovers come Quiet to that place, All the phantoms flutter from There without a trace. Lovers take and use the night, Gone before the dawn Leaves a mourning-wreath of light On the marbled lawn. Lovers leave before the black Sky returns to blue: Fifty years, and they’ll be back There as spirits too.