All of nature’s noblest metonymies have come
As our mutes to mourn with us hereon her behalf:
The inconsolable clouds, the ominous cut flowers,
The grass with its grim reminder of the large
Lawnmower Fate drives ‘oer the plots
Of all our little lives. Hélas!

But even so,
How lovely. The pebblings of the granite
Are the shingle on Eternity’s stillest beach,
And see there, with the raindrops filling it
And spilling from the letters’ discreet serifs—
Her name incised in the immotave sand,
Nothing exotic or very grand but eminently
Suitable to her new estate: she is a monument
At last among the multitude that she has visted
To lay her wreaths, bequeath her song, and get
A piece of the inaction that passesth all understanding.