A grave in the woods with the grass o’ergrown,
A grave in the heart of his mother
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone:
There is not a name, there is not a stone,
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan
O’er the grave where never a flower is strewn,
But his memory lives in the other.”
John W. Hinsdale.
Raleigh, N. C.,
26 April, 1901.