Epitaph by an Unknown Poet

Traveler, do you not know
     how a poet lives beyond the grave?
You stand and read this verse:
     but it is I who speak.
As you read this work aloud,
     your living voice is mine.

Source: Life of Augustine by Possidius, c. 450 CE

"Margaret George" by Margaret George Davidson

Find a Grave

Margaret George Davidson

1869-1897

Moritura (She Who Is About to Die)
I am the mown grass, dying at your feet,
The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun.
I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done,
That you may say: “The air, to-day, was sweet.”
I am the mown grass, dying at your feet.
I am the white syringa, falling now,
When some one shakes the bough.
What matter if I lose my life’s brief noon?
You laugh, “A snow in June!” I am the white syringa, falling now.
I am the waning lamp that flickers on,—
Trying to give my old, unclouded light
Among the rest that make your garden bright.
Let me still burn till all my oil is gone.
I am the waning lamp that flickers on.
I am your singer, singing my last note.
Death’s fingers clutch my throat.
New grass will grow, new flowers bloom and fall;
New lamps blaze out against your garden wall:
I am your singer, singing my last note.