But what of him unknown to fame for whom the lonely weep?
Yea, what of him in unknown grave unmarked by stone or tomb;
Shall over him no standard wave, no Springtime roses bloom?
Weep not, dear heart, for him who lies beneath the Georgia pine;
He sleeps beneath more tender skies than are these skies of thine,
And blossoms tremble o’er his head as gentle and as fair—
The flowers above the unknown dead his God has planted there.
And when the breeze, the southern breeze, the pine above him swings
Of his beloved northern trees a melody it sings—
Yea, like the roar of waves that sweep upon an unseen shore,