OUT from the City's dust and roar, You wandered through the open door; Paused at a plaything pail and spade Across a tiny hillock laid; Then noted on your dexter side Some moneyed mourner's 'love or pride,' And so, -- beyond a hawthorn-tree, Showering its rain of rosy bloom Alike on low and lofty tomb, -- You came upon it -- suddenly. How strange! The very grasses' growth Around it seemed forlorn and loath; The very ivy seemed to turn Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn The slab had sunk; the head declined, And left the rails a wreck behind. No name; you traced a '6,' -- a '7,' Part of 'affliction' and of 'Heaven' And then, in letters sharp and clear, You read -- O Irony austere! -- 'Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.' |