Thomas Hardy — Voices from things growing in a Churchyard

These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd,        &nbsp Sir or Madam, A little girl here sepultured. Once I flit-fluttered like a bird Above the grass, as now I wave In daisy shapes above my grave,        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily! - I am one Bachelor Bowring, “Gent,”        &nbsp Sir or Madam; In shingled oak my bones were pent; Hence more than a hundred years I spent In my feat of change from a coffin-thrall To a dancer in green as leaves on a wall.        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily! - I, these berries of juice and gloss,        &nbsp Sir or Madam, Am clean forgotten as Thomas Voss; Thin-urned, I have burrowed away from the moss That covers my sod, and have entered this yew, And turned to clusters ruddy of view,        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily! - The Lady Gertrude, proud, high-bred,        &nbsp Sir or Madam, Am I - this laurel that shades your head; Into its veins I have stilly sped, And made them of me; and my leaves now shine, As did my satins superfine,        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily! - I, who as innocent withwind climb,        &nbsp Sir or Madam. Am one Eve Greensleeves, in olden time Kissed by men from many a clime, Beneath sun, stars, in blaze, in breeze, As now by glowworms and by bees,        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily! - I’m old Squire Audeley Grey, who grew,        &nbsp Sir or Madam, Aweary of life, and in scorn withdrew; Till anon I clambered up anew As ivy-green, when my ache was stayed, And in that attire I have longtime gayed        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily! - And so they breathe, these masks, to each        &nbsp Sir or Madam Who lingers there, and their lively speech Affords an interpreter much to teach, As their murmurous accents seem to come Thence hitheraround in a radiant hum,        &nbsp All day cheerily,        &nbsp All night eerily!