THE POET’S GRAVE.
’Tis his tomb—and trails around it
Wild flowers, fragrant, sweet, and dim;
Summer with a wreath hath bound it—
With a wild wreath worthy him.
Children of the sunny weather,
Nurtured by the careless air;
Fitting flowers are they to gather
O’er the wild one sleeping there.
Lovely are they in the morning,
Opening to the dewy wind,
Lifting up their sweet heads, scorning
Common culture of their kind.
But, ere evening comes, has perished
Fragrant breath and early glow:
None their fragile life has cherished—
None did his who sleeps below.
Even so did he inherit
Gifts that nature gives alone;
Frail as lovely was the spirit
Which to soon from earth has flown.
Many a line of his yet lingers,
Many a careless heart among:
For he was of earth’s sweet singers,
Whose whole soul is poured in song.
I remember him in childhood,
With his large and earnest eyes,
Wandering amid the wild wood,
Watching where the violet lies.
Or when the clear stars, united
Round the midnight’s solemn throne,
Gazing till his pale face lighted
With a beauty like their own.
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