grandmother poem

rocked in the cradle of the deep
see, they return
a storm is riding on the tide
the earth keeps some vibration going
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
sleep, gray brother of death
they may talk of love in a cottage
death's nobility again
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
there were three in the meadow by the brook
let us plant
though i am little as all little things
once this soft turf