 | Collected poems |  |
150
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY
Out from the City's dust and roar,
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's “love or pride,”
And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,—
You came upon it—suddenly.
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's “love or pride,”
And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,—
You came upon it—suddenly.
How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”
Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven”
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read—O Irony austere!—
“Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.’
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”
Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven”
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read—O Irony austere!—
“Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.’
| Collected poems | |