At the Grave of the 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?

Was it else one full of days,
Who had traveled darksome ways,
              And was tired,
Who looked forth unto the end,
And saw Death come as a friend
              Long desired?

Who it was that rests below
Not earth's wisest now may know,
              Or can tell;
But these blossoms witness bear
They who laid the sleeper there
              Loved him well.

In the dust that closed him o'er
Planted they the garden store
              Deemed most sweet,
Till the fragrant gleam, outspread,
Swept in beauty from his head
              To his feet.

Still, in early springtime's glow,
Guelder-roses cast their snow
              O'er his rest;
Still sweet-williams breathe perfume
Where the peonies' crimson bloom
              Drapes his breast.

Passing stranger, pity not
Him who lies here, all forgot,
              'Neath this earth;
Some one loved him—more can fall
To no mortal. Love is all
              Life is worth.