The Poetry Corner

Oblivion

By John Charles McNeill

Green moss will creep Along the shady graves where we shall sleep. Each year will bring Another brood of birds to nest and sing. At dawn will go New ploughmen to the fields we used to know. Night will call home The hunter from the hills we loved to roam. She will not ask, The milkmaid, singing softly at her task, Nor will she care To know if I were brave or you were fair. No one will think What chalice life had offered us to drink, When from our clay The sun comes back to kiss the snow away.