It is said that the Spirits of buried men
Oft come to this wicked world again;
That the churchyard turf is often trod
By the unlaid tenants of tomb and sod.
That the midnight sea itself is swept
By those who have long beneath it slept.
And they say of this old, mossy wood
Whose hoary trunks have for ages stood
That every knoll and dim-lit glade
Is haunted at night by its restless Shade.
© Donna Weckerly Photography