Our Dead Poem by Radclyffe Hall

The day our dead are laid to rest
We heap the earth upon their breast ;
Upon the earth we set a stone.
And then we leave them all alone.

Some folks they weep, and some they pray,
But from the grave they'll turn away.
There's wood to chop, and fires to make,
And food to cook, and bread to bake.

Another takes the empty seat.
For men who live must drink and eat ;
And work is waiting to be done.
The work of two, that's now for one.

We sometimes speak of folks that's dead.
Of what they did, and what they said ;
We sometimes think of them at night,
But sometimes we forget them quite.