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 neighbor 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.”
(Henry Austin Dobson)
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