Fairmount

How calm the sound of snow that's falling
   Soft upon these lonely stones—
As if the north winds now were calling
   Sleeping ghosts from restless bones.

Some think this yard of graves as eerie,
   Filled with silence and with woes:
Where souls departed wander weary,
   Chained to earth and seen by crows.

I've seen some come with flowers weeping,
   Doubting God as they lament;
While others deemed the dead as sleeping,
   Waiting for the Lord's advent.

And some would do the most appalling—
   Cracking headstones, tagging hate.
Yet still the snow would be there falling,
   Falling calmly on our fate.