Classic Poem

The village churchyard has two mounds marked
By a simple tablet of wood alone;
No name is told, and no deed enrolled —
The only inscription is " Unknown. "

That word, whose mystery made the Greek
Bow in a worship akin to truth,
Rivets the eye of the passer-by,
Be it dull with age or quick with youth.

And often these nameless, unclaimed graves
Fresh oak-leaves and pale wild-flowers wear;
When days are still, then some gracious will
Weaveth and layeth a garland there.

The stranger threading these tangled ways
Musingly mutters each fresh-found name,
As soon to slip through his mind as lip,
The names of men are so much the same.

But there doth he pay his longest thought,
Before the tablet that holds a word;
No place — no time — just a word sublime,
That all of our precious things doth gird.

Hemmed in no longer by common bounds
Who slumber beneath this great Unknown,
The tender care of the world shall share;
Ah! theirs is a beautiful name to own!