The churchyard's quiet on a Sunday,
Under an oak board I shall rest.
Come to me, my dearest, running,
Come to your mama, like a guest.
Over the stream and hillside run,
So the slow grown-ups disappear;
From far, the keen eyes of my son
Will recognize my cross. My dear,
I know I can't expect you to
Remember me, who neither kissed
And dandled you, nor scolded you,
Nor took you to the eucharist.
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