Not Theirs The Cypress-Arch

Dream not the dead will wait, Slow-crumbling in the allotted ground, Nor rise except to some sonorous trump And scaring splendors of the doomsday sun: They rise, they gather about us now, Crowding the quiet day. To us, entombed in time, Asleep within a vaster vault, They use a speech we seem not to have known, Yet guide us like sleep-walkers to and fro— By those forgotten voices drawn With secret tacit guile. Not theirs the cypress-arch, The sexton's haunt, the hallowed stones, The charnel morris stilled by chanticleer: Dark demons, through the forum and the street They move, and we, their fleshly ghosts, Like driven demoniacs are.