Poem by Henry Austin Dobson

The Forgotten Grave

OUT from the City’s dust and roar,
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner’s “love or pride;”
And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,—
You came upon it—suddenly.

How strange! The very grasses’ growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbor urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”—
Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven;”
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read—O Irony austere!—
“Tho’ lost to Sight, to Mem’ry dear.” 

1. On the Future of Poetry
2. When Burbadge Played
3. Incognita
4. O Fons Bandusae
5. For a Copy of Theocritus

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