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, 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. 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, 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. 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 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. 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, 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUTH AND ART by ROBERT BROWNING HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ON THE RESURRECTION OF CHRIST by WILLIAM DUNBAR THE MARTYRS OF THE MAINE by RUPERT HUGHES ODE TO SILENCE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY [OR, DAFFYDOWNDILLY] by MOTHER GOOSE SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 110 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |