Carefully over the graves.
I do not much like them.
There is Thomas Lark, I told him
Go on, Thomas, take heart,
She is dying to see you—
Which he found reasonably amusing,
As anyone might in our situation.
Carefully over the graves.
Searching for my dear one.
Remember now, Miss Budde is mine.
O Come! Dear One, Come!
The light does not belong to me.
Is that you behind the tree?
Gingerly, gingerly over the graves.
Your darkened self I cannot see.