---
title: Improvement Era
description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930.
authors:
  - Cummings, B. F.
collections:
  - periodicals
tags:
  - magazine
  - improvement-era
periodical: Improvement Era
volume: 18
number: 8
published: 1915-06
publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations
publisher_place: Salt Lake City
language: en
type: magazine
reference: 'B. F. Cummings, "My Father’s Grave: A Poem," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 8 (June 1915): 666–668.'
source:
  url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1808unse
  transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers.
  identifier: improvementera1808unse
start_page: 666
end_page: 668
rights:
  status: public-domain
  basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-06)
  source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1808unse
  publication_year: 1915
  note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright.
---

# My Father’s Grave: A Poem

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My Father's Grave
       The sun is floating in a pensive sky
         A soft wind sweeps the field where sleep the dead   ;

       The falling leaves of autumn rustle by,
         As my slow feet the hearse's roadway tread.
       A spirit sad but sweet broods o'er the scene,
           As if a higher world its holy atmosphere
       Were shedding on these silent billows green,
         Where those who live have buried those so dear.
    Written for and read by the author at a meeting of the Cummings
Family Association, held April 13, 1915.

<!-- page:667 -->

MY FATHER'S GRAVE                              667

A granite shaft a solemn shadow throws
  Across a mound in an obscure space,
And thoughts of him whose ashes here repose,
  Now draw me to his modest resting olace.
A brief inscription, carved upon the stone,
  His name, with dates of birth and death, supplies      ;

But on this" spot no signs of wealth are shown,
  For he was poor, and with the poor he lies.

This is my father's grave; his kingly form.
  Clothed in an angel's raiment, here was laid.
To feel no more of pain, or grief, or harm,
  But just to rest, where none can make afraid.

My father's grave  Beside it with bared head
                    !

  Ibow, while deep emotion my heart swells,
And with communion sweet my soul is fed
  From sources where my father dear now dwells.
Among those pioneers whose painful trail
  First lined the desert's dreary, ashen face.
And penetrated to this mountain vale,
  He held a brave and valiant leader's place.
The first rude homes that broke the desert's reign,
  His brawn and skill were soon employed to build
His fellow exiles here took heart again,
  And he like them with hope and faith was filled.
And now, upon the scene where thus he toiled,
  A city stands whose beauty is world famed      ;

The desert drear, at which stout hearts recoiled,
  Is now a picture rare, in mountains framed.

His 'labor hard no respite ever knew
  Until old age his eye and strength impaired        ;

To honor and to conscience he was true,
  And with the poor his scanty store He shared.
With faithful care his children all were trained
  In virtue's ways, and faith in God were taught
The politician's methods he disdained,
  Nor could his vote or favor e'er be bought.
His friends were many, yet his sphere obscure
  He did not wish to leave nor did he seek
                            ;

To win the world's applause, nor yet secure
  Its prizes vain, so tempting to the weak.

<!-- page:668 -->

My father as stand here by your grave,
                      !   I

       How like a flood come recollections bright
      Of loving counsel you so often gave,
        To guide my footsteps in the path of right.
      Ineed that counsel now, and my soul yearns
        To hear again your kind, inspiring voiee              ;

      With such a longing often my heart burns            ;       ,

        In such a blessing, how I would rejoice.

      Is    such a blessing, then, beyond my reach ?
           Has God forbidden you to speak to me?
      May not the dead the living ever teach?
        May not the living ever the dead see?
      Where is the record of a law divine
        That thwarts these hopes of human nature, lost?
      That thus divides your sphere of life from mine.
        And says the gulf shall never more be crossed ?
      In    all   the scripture God has ever given
        There is no law intended to prevent
      Our loved ones, gone before us up to heaven.
           From visiting us here, when they are sent.
      This is the faith I cherish, firm and sure
        I do believe that, when I listen right,
      Your voice speaks to me words of cheer,
        And that your spirit o'er my path sheds light.
      And if my selfishness I would subdue.
        And stronger faith my sluggish soul would fire,
      The vail that separates me now from you
        Would vanish, and I'd have my heart's desire.
      Your face I'd see, your voice so loved I'd hear
        Wise counsel and reproof you'd 'gently give;
      The future you'd unfold, and without fear
        The words of life from you I would receive.
      The fault is mine, then, if my longing still
        Remains unsatisfied so let me wait
                                  ;

      In patient effort with myself until
        God's grace shall help me reach a higher state.

      And if to meet you I must leave this sphere
        And follow whither you have gone before.
      With faith and courage that shall know no fear.
           J will   approach that mystic, happy shore.
                                                  p. F.   Cummings.