Far removed from the din of the traffic
High up on the bank of the stream,
Lays the City of Silence before us
With headstones that glitter and gleam.
And oft, oh, how oft in the twilight
I think of the quietude there,
Save for the weird call of a night bird
Or breezes that float on the air.
And oft when at nighttime I lay me
I think of the blankets of snow
How the swirling winds of winter
Will put them on thickly I know.
‘Tis a spot where time has no meaning
Tasks of life & hurrying are done,
Days unheeded follow each other
S In the wake of the rising sun.
And in the not far-distant future
When my soul from my body shall flee
With its ever broadening reaches
A place they will find there for me.
a pioneer woman