The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded graves,

And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way;

And they murmur around us as murmur the waves,

that sigh on the shore at the dying of day.



There is not a heart that is not haunted so,

Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past,

It's memories will follow wherever we go,

And the days that were first sway the days that are last.

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown,

A grave in the heart of his mother--

His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone

There is not a name, there is not a stone,

And only the voice of the winds maketh moan

O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn

But--his memory lives in other.

Fell the daylights fading glimmer,

on a face so wan and white:

Brighter was his soul, while dimmer,

grew the shadows of his light;

And he died--with God not near him,

I knelt by him to forgive;

And I sometimes seem to hear him,

whisper--"Live like I did live."

If from the cradle to the grave,

we reckon all our days and hours

We sure will find they give and gave,

much more of thorns, and less of flowers.