The sun this morning is of no avail,
Shining upon a land that cannot cast
One sparkle back. The walls are dead with dust;
The maples do not lift a single leaf;
And all of the way to the village, down our slope,
The meadows have forgotten being green. 
Yet look to the left a little. There is brightness.
There, in the angle of two ancient fences,
Dark tall cedars spread their pleasant boughs
Over a few white gravestones that the sun
Now catches full. You see them flash and smile.
Only the dead this morning are not old.