Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.
O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:
And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Have you ever visited an old graveyard and wondered about the lives of those who lie there?
Our church, which was built in the 1840s, is surrounded by old graves. Many have been moved to make way for an extension to the church building and are lined up together to one side of the church.
I often wonder about the people buried there, but especially the young women and little children who seemed to die so very often. Childbirth and infancy were such dangerous stages of life.I wonder what these people thought and dreamed about. Could they have ever have imagined a future where Adelaide became a city of over a million people?
I wonder if these long dead folks are remembered by anyone. Or have their descendants moved far, far away?
