OUT from the City’s dust and roar, <br />You wandered through the open door; <br />Paused at a plaything pail and spade <br />Across a tiny hillock laid; <br />Then noted on your dexter side <br />Some moneyed mourner’s “love or pride;” <br />And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree, <br />Showering its rain of rosy bloom <br />Alike on low and lofty tomb,— <br />You came upon it—suddenly. <br /> <br />How strange! The very grasses’ growth <br />Around it seemed forlorn and loath; <br />The very ivy seemed to turn <br />Askance that wreathed the neighbor urn. <br />The slab had sunk; the head declined, <br />And left the rails a wreck behind. <br />No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”— <br />Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven;” <br />And then, in letters sharp and clear, <br />You read—O Irony austere!— <br />“Tho’ lost to Sight, to Mem’ry dear.”<br /><br />Henry Austin Dobson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-forgotten-grave-2/
