The Tramper's Grave

Above his head the twilight sleeps, And slowly drone the vagrant bees; But he in narrow housing keeps Between two stunted cypress trees.

No more the long road calls him on, No more the wayside fountains sing A pleasant tune, when day has gone, To cheer him on his journeying.

The wind-blown sand, the sweeping surf, Call him in vain: and yet he lies In peace, with but the kindly turf To bar him from familiar skies.

And he is one with leaf and blade, As changing seasons dawn again: Kith to the far-flung clouds that fade, And brother to the silver rain.

Here, morn and eve, the blackbird sings, The strong-winged swallows wheel and dip; And here all great and little things Go down the days in fellowship.

Perhaps his eyes in dream have seen Those low twin-hills that rise afar, With soft blue breadth of sea between Reflecting one triumphant star.

And, waking, he has thought it fair, With some diviner spirit blest To quiet ends: nor known that there He, at the journey's close, should rest.