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...TO SIR HENRY WOTTON (1) by JOHN DONNE IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE MARRIAGE OF GERAINT by ALFRED TENNYSON SINCE THOU ART GONE by HENRY VAUGHAN AT TWO-AND-TWENTY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MY LITTLE CAPE COD MAIDEN by KATHERINE FINNIGAN ANDERSON PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 76. YA WALI by EDWIN ARNOLD SONNET: 4 by RICHARD BARNFIELD |