entle, yet so free,
Your every word, whenever heard,
Seemed wondrous wise to me.

You marvelled if the dead could hear
Our steps, that passed at will
Their low green houses in the elm-
Crowned churchyard on the hill.

And I, whom your sweet childhood's trust,
Esteemed as most profound,
Thought that they heard, as in a dream,
The shadow of a sound.

We drew the long, rank grass away
From tombstones mossy grown,
To read the verses crude and quaint,
And make the words our own.

One tottering marble, willow-spread,
I well remember yet,
With only this engraved thereon,
"By Joseph to Jeanette."

It held us wondering oft, as we
Peeped through the pickets old:
There was some mystery, we knew,
Some history untold.

Well, better far those simple words,
Where weeping phrase is not,
Than burdened tablet, and the rest
Forgetting and forgot.

And Lily Minden, do you lie
In some forgotten grave,
Where only strangers' feet pass o'er
Your temple's architrave?

Or, by some hearthstone, have you learned
The worst and best of life,
And found sweet greetings in the name
Of mother and of wife?

I cannot tell: I know you but
As bee the clover bloom,
That sips content, and straightway builds
Its mansion and its tomb.

So took I in child-innocence,
So build the House of Life,
And in low tone to thee alone,
As dead or maid or wife,

I sing this song, borne all along
A space of wasted breath;
And build me on from room to room
Unto the House of Death,

Where portals swing forever in