Upon the City of the Dead
And on the City of the Living
The Snow falls;

And the rows of squat stones
Point higher
Than the probing blind thorns,
That crown the shocked horizon
Where the sky descends to meet
The Earth.
The falling flakes are souls returning
Giving life, to the City of the Living
And the City of the Dead.

In the grave and sombre yard
There are no shafts soaring
A Hundred and forty stories
And no shuttles elevating bodies
Either express or local;
But there,
Souls may ascend to Heaven
Not to scrape the sky,
But to partake of it.