ROSEMARY AND PANSIES
AT THE GRAVE OF ONE FORGOTTEN
In a churchyard old and still,
Where the breeze-touched branches thrill
To and fro,
Giant oak trees blend their shade
O’er a sunken grave-mound, made
Long ago.
No stone, crumbling at its head,
Bears the mossed name of the dead
Graven deep;
But a myriad blossoms’ grace
Clothes with trembling light the place
Of his sleep.
Was a young man in his strength
Laid beneath this low mound’s length,
Heeding naught?
Did a maiden’s parents wail
As they saw her, pulseless, pale,
Hither brought?