His Grave who loved the Sea

Lie here, lie here! The dogwood-treeThat spreads above these graves,Not far, not far away can see,On paths of shining waves,The coastwise sails pass to and fro,And outward the great steamers goWith smoky pennants of farewell.In this green shadowy spot,Where pain and restlessness are not,And sorrow ne'er befell,Thy fathers sleep.Here is a cabin, strait like theirs and deep.Here thou shalt dwell,And thy dear form shall beCompanioned by the sea's fidelity.Lie still and dream in this safe bourn of ours.

The sun that strikes upon the turfThrough whitening screen of dogwood flowers,A mile away strikes whitening surf;It draws in autumn from the ocean's breastThe rain that falls upon thy place of restThrough reddening dogwood leaves,In winter-time the hail and snowThat bend the naked branches low.The blast that sobs and grievesAmid the raindrops and the hail,Speaks the wild words of an Atlantic gale;When it has passed,The gladder winds, that whistle and that sing,A greeting to thy peaceful harbor bringFrom rushing keel and bending mastWet with Atlantic spray.

Here day by dayThe breezes and the blasts will bring to theeSounds of the farther and the farthest sea:Lie quiet, listen, and thy dreaming earThe loud salute shall hearOf tangled surf on boreal rock and sand,Of rhythmic, cadenced surf on tropic strand;From distant waves will come the cryOf curlew and of petrel; nearer by,Beach-birds will call to thee; and overhead,On slanted wing above thy bed,The gull will be thy messenger.From herOf sunset and of sunrise thou shalt know;The wild-fowl, migrant, their report will bringOf north, of south, in autumn and in spring,Of coming and of going of the snow;And every wandering air will yieldThe faint fresh scent from shore-side fieldAnd bordering thicket near the tall beach-grass—The breath of clover-blows,Of swamp-azalea and the meadow-rose,Sweet-fern and bayberry and sassafras,Of sun-warmed savin-tree and pine,And, delicate, divine,The sweet, sweet, airy wineFrom blossoms of the vagrant grape.

So sleeping, dearest, thou shalt shapeWithin thy narrow homeDream-tales of happiness to lastUntil the round world's voyaging is past;For thy dear dust, who loved the sea,Companioned by its messengers shall beUntil the warm earth groweth numb,And the recurrent tides of time becomeImmobile oceans of eternity.