I threw a pebble from the shore
Upon a gentle wave,
And silently it sank away
Into a silent grave.

And ere the ripple which it made
Had died upon the shore,
Another pebble filled the place
Which that had filled before.

In vain its former bed to trace
With curious search I tried;
Another pebble filled the place
Which that had occupied.

I plucked a rose-bud from its stem,—
The hurt stem bled awhile;
But other rose-buds, opening there,
Still made the Summer smile.

A little songster of the grove
Lay stricken at my feet,
But still the grove seemed full of birds
Whose songs were full as sweet.

A merry boy was borne away
By death,—his tasks all done,—
But other boys so filled the streets
I did not miss that one.

To read the histories of the great
And mighty sons of men,
'T would seem the world had come to nought
Unless those men had been.

But when they died, the world swept on,
With all its rush and roar,
As if those great and mighty men
Were pebbles on the shore.

Let not the vain and beautiful,
Let not the sons of song,
Nor let the great and mighty think
The world will miss them long.

They 'll only leave their places here
For others to step in,
And all the world will pass along
As if they ne'er had been.

Some hearts will bleed, some houses mourn
When they shall pass away;
But 't will not clog the wheels of Time,
Nor cloud one shining day.

To man his schemes are all the world;
But to the world poor man
Is but a drop in its huge sea,
An atom in its plan.

And yet he thinks,—O vanity!
That all the world will stop
Without this atom! and the sea
Will dry without this drop!

So may we live, that though the world
Won't miss us when we die,
Another and a better land
Will welcome us on high;

That from our mouldering dust may spring,
Like fruits from buried seeds,
The harvests, ever ripening,
Of good and deathless deeds.