At a Poet's Grave
Rather unto the Truth than unto one
Who sleepeth here is raised this monument.
To her he yields his tomb and is content.
Ye living singers, shower and wind and sun,
Days, nights, and flowers obey your fancy's Art,
And mean your meanings, otherwhere; they own,
Here in this little sanctuary alone,
Meanings beyond the deepest poet's heart.
Sing through the world; this is another world,
This poet's empire, but he will not claim
One flower sprung from his heart, nor ever steep
One with his thoughts; his thoughts in truth are furled.
There was no need of him; hush up his fame,
Now earth has laid her docile child to sleep.
Who sleepeth here is raised this monument.
To her he yields his tomb and is content.
Ye living singers, shower and wind and sun,
Days, nights, and flowers obey your fancy's Art,
And mean your meanings, otherwhere; they own,
Here in this little sanctuary alone,
Meanings beyond the deepest poet's heart.
Sing through the world; this is another world,
This poet's empire, but he will not claim
One flower sprung from his heart, nor ever steep
One with his thoughts; his thoughts in truth are furled.
There was no need of him; hush up his fame,
Now earth has laid her docile child to sleep.
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