Headstones Of Tenfold Lain

The gloom of a wretched soul, who lies in a lorn cementery.

Behold the smolt glare of the sunset,

Swathing cold winds of the e'ening,

Upon dreary guises from the onset,

With the dust of the ground heaving.

Weary blooms wanze by the tussocks,

Where wraiths abide a drenching dew,

Along the lee of the winding hillocks,

When the greenest grass once grew.

The fainest nightingales all flew away, 

And the trees now full of dark crows,

As a sexton shuts the gates of today,

Amidst the wankle light of the glows.

Alack, the headstones of tenfold lain,

By manifold names ye forgot amain.

I am one of the headstones of tenfold lain.