A graveyard is the hare’s haven, a repository of old statuary, a sanctuary for rare flowers, a place for fantasies, and a place for wind, sun, and the rain to freely fall.

A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland

— by William Wordsworth

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies; The hare’s best couching-place for fearless sleep; Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes, Enter in dance. Of church, or Sabbath ties, No vestige now remains; yet thither creep Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knights, By humble choice of plain old times, are seen Level with earth, among the hillocks green: Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring With jubilate from the choirs of spring!