polymorphism (polymorphism) wrote,

an old favorite

Deep in the earth I rested now; 
Cool is its hand upon the brow 
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead. 
And all at once, and over all 
The pitying rain began to fall; 
I lay and heard each pattering hoof 
Upon my lowly, thatchèd roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more 
Than ever I had done before. 
For rain it hath a friendly sound 
To one who’s six feet under ground; 
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

- - - from "Renascence", Edna St. Vincent Millay


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