Is this the end: Fading Wreaths on the grass that’s green? Quiet. Well kept solitude Amids’t stones upright and some that lean. Or was the end When prayers were said and hymns sung? Did life go out with Breath To take a holiday or was there just begun. Something different, unseen, Moving swiftly, travel unerringly? Too swift for senses That love and hold on endearingly. The form beneath the fading wreaths Feels not nor senses aught. The vibrant force that we call Life Does it suddenly become naught? Life cannot rest in a tomb Except dead before we died. If buried then T’was killed by him - Who had it to use while living and when. He could have done, but did not do. Beneath the stone and wreaths There lies not our joys or deeds Only lost hopes and griefs. Throughout the world and everywhere Still lives a part of those Who have tarried here It lives in other lives as joys and woes. If life is uncertain and death is so sure Most certain still Is the effect of our living upon those who follow And follow they will. Not only into living, but living somewhat as We said, planned and did, From this by wreaths, and stones and turf We cannot possibly be hid. Life is living, not existing. Waiting, waiting for the end It’s going, doing, sensing our needs And those of our fellow men.