| |
| I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed | |
| The comet of a season, and I saw | |
| The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed | |
| With not the less of sorrow and of awe | |
| On that neglected turf and quiet stone, | 5 |
| With name no clearer than the names unknown | |
| Which lay unread around it; and I asked | |
| The gardener of that ground, why it might be | |
| That for this plant strangers his memory tasked | |
| Through the thick deaths of half a century? | 10 |
| And thus he answered: “Well, I do not know | |
| Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; | |
| He died before my day of sextonship, | |
| And I had not the digging of this grave.” | |
| And is this all? I thought; and do we rip | 15 |
| The veil of immortality, and crave | |
| I know not what of honor and of light | |
| Through unborn ages, to endure this blight, | |
| So soon, and so successless? As I said, | |
| The Architect of all on which we tread— | 20 |
| For earth is but a tombstone—did essay | |
| To extricate remembrance from the clay, | |
| Whose minglings might confuse a Newton’s thought, | |
| Were it not that all life must end in one, | |
| Of which we are but dreamers. As he caught | 25 |
| As ’t were the twilight of a former sun, | |
| Thus spoke he: “I believe the man of whom | |
| You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, | |
| Was a most famous writer in his day, | |
| And therefore travellers step from out their way | 30 |
| To pay him honor,—and myself whate’er | |
| Your honor pleases.” Then most pleased I shook | |
| From out my pocket’s avaricious nook | |
| Some certain coins of silver, which as ’t were | |
| Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare | 35 |
| So much but inconveniently:—ye smile, | |
| I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while | |
| Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. | |
| You are the fools, not I; for I did dwell | |
| With a deep thought and with a softened eye | 40 |
| On that old sexton’s natural homily, | |
| In which there was obscurity and fame,— | |
| The glory and the nothing of a name. | |
| |
