Greetings poetry lovers!  Hey, it is cold
here at night, which makes me think of
Robert Frost.  Here's a happy little thing:

         IN A DISUSED GRAVEYARD

         The living come with grassy tread
         To read the gravestones on the hill;
         The graveyard draws the living still,
         But never any more the dead.

         The verses in it say and say:
         "The ones who living come today
         To read the stones and go away
         Tomorrow dead will come to stay."

         So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
         Yet can't help marking all the time
         How no one dead will seem to come.
         What is it men are shrinking from?

         It would be easy to be clever
         And tell the stones: Men hate to die
         And have stopped dying now forever.
         I think they would believe the lie.

have a happy week, ciao, etc



				(gracias a Paul)