Page:Wine and Roses (IA wineroses00dale).pdf/141

The pale discrowned stacks of maize,
Like spectres in the sun,
Stand shivering nigh Avonaise,
Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain,
With melancholy chords;
Like cries from some old battle-plain,
Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green
With musical green waves,
She went, its plumed ranks between,
Unto the hill of graves.

There you may see sweet flowers set
O'er damsels and o'er dames—
Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret—
The sweet old quiet names.