Elegy Written After Seeing a Graveyard

Little rocks
Atop holes
Marking the beds
Of resting souls.

Arthur Wiley?
I wonder still
Whose body it is
Inside this hill.

A lamb, an angel,
A cut-off tree--
This tiny grave
Seems a child's to me.

Are there living now
Who remember this man?
Is he in hell,
Or in God's hands?

Helena Campbell,
Name etched in stone--
A rose lays atop;
Remembered, still alone.

This aged stone
Is wearing away--
Faint letters read H.B.A.
Who she was, noone knows.

Our life is a vapor,
Transient still--
That much is proven
By those on this hill.