A Soldier's Grave

Break not his sweet repose— Thou whom chance brings to this sequestered ground, The sacred yard his ashes close, But go thy way in silence; here no sound Is ever heard but from the murmuring pines,     Answering the sea’s near murmur;     Nor ever here comes rumor Of anxious world or war’s foregathering signs.     The bleaching flag, the faded wreath,     Mark the dead soldier’s dust beneath,     And show the death he chose; Forgotten save by her who weeps alone, And wrote his fameless name on this low stone:     Break not his sweet repose.