I Pass the Graveyard

I pass the graveyard deep in snow. One woman at a headstone weeps all dressed in black like winter crows as memories in warmth she keeps. While icicles from boughs hang low one woman at a headstone weeps. Still muted angels' trumpets blow and 'cross the powder darkness creeps while icicles from boughs hang low. On granite crags do snowflakes heap where frost on trees like lichens grow and 'cross the powder darkness creeps. As past the iron fence I go her mortal love in silence sleeps where frost on trees like lichens grow. My heart into my throat now leaps. I pass the graveyard deep in snow; her mortal love in silence sleeps all dressed in black like winter crows.