Your dust will be upon the wind Within some certain years, Though you be sealed in lead to-day Amid the country's tears. When this idyllic churchyard Becomes the heart of town, The place to build garage or inn, They'll throw your tombstone down. Your name so dim, so long outworn, Your bones so near to earth, Your sturdy kindred dead and gone, How should men know your worth? So read upon the runic moon Man's epitaph, deep-writ. It says the world is one great grave. For names it cares no whit. It tells the folk to live in peace, And still, in peace, to die. At least, so speaks the moon to me, The tombstone of the sky.