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| THERE is a little lonely grave | |
| Which no one comes to see, | |
| The foxglove and red orchis wave | |
| Their welcome to the bee. | |
| There never falls the morning sun, | 5 |
| It lies beneath the wall, | |
| But there when weary day is done | |
| The lights of sunset fall, | |
| Flushing the warm and crimson air, | |
| As life and hope were present there. | 10 |
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| There sleepeth one who left his heart | |
| Behind him in his song; | |
| Breathing of that diviner part | |
| Which must to heaven belong, | |
| The language of those spirit chords, | 15 |
| But to the poet known, | |
| Youth, love, and hope yet use his words, | |
| They seem to be his own: | |
| And yet he has not left a name, | |
| The poet died without his fame. | 20 |
| |
| How many are the lovely lays | |
| That haunt our English tongue; | |
| Defrauded of their poet’s praise, | |
| Forgotten he who sung. | |
| Tradition only vaguely keeps | 25 |
| Sweet fancies round his tomb; | |
| Its tears are what the wild flower weeps, | |
| Its record is that bloom; | |
| Ah, surely Nature keeps with her | |
| The memory of her worshipper. | 30 |
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| One of her loveliest mysteries | |
| Such spirit blends at last, | |
| With all the fairy fantasies | |
| Which o’er some scenes are cast: | |
| A softer beauty fills the grove, | 35 |
| A light is in the grass, | |
| A deeper sense of truth and love | |
| Comes o’er us as we pass; | |
| While lingers in the heart one line | |
| The nameless poet hath a shrine. | 40 |
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