The Hillside Grave

Ten-thousand deep the drifted daisies break Here at the hill’s foot; on its top, the wheat Hangs meagre-bearded; and, in vague retreat, The wisp-like blooms of the moth-mulleins shake. And where the wild-pink drops a crimson flake, And morning-glories, like young lips, make sweet The shadowed hush, low in the honeyed heat, The wild-bees hum--as if afraid to wake One sleeping here, with no white stone to tell If it be youth or maiden. Just the stem Of one wild rose, towering o’er brier and weed, Where all the day the wild-birds requiem; Within whose shade the timid violets spell An epitaph, the stars alone can read.