deer-graves

Whose graves these are I do not know
Their names have crowned the city though
They cannot see me stopping here
To watch the raindrops plop and flow

That little buck must think it queer
To see me jog and stretch so near
Between the gate and wooded lake
The grayest evening of the year

He gives his antlered head a shake
To tell me he will not be steak
The only other sound the sweep
Of southern wind and silent ache

These grounds are lovely, green and deep
But I have paces yet to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep

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