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.

Collection:

English

John Albee

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