The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With not the less of sorrow and of awe
On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
With name no clearer than the names unknown
Which lay unread around it. And I ask'd
The gardener of that ground why it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd,
Through the thick deaths of half a century.
And thus he answered: 'Well, I do not know
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so: