by Eugene Lee-Hamilton
Where Mimma lies, some nameless children sleep,
Whose graves, in the obliterating grass,
Sink slowly, as the empty seasons pass,
And look like waves on Time's slow-heaving deep.
No tears, no flowers; save when spring-clouds weep
Upon them; or the breeze with faint " Alas! "
Brings them stray petals from the flowery mass
Upon some grave that Love and Sorrow keep.
Who were they? No one knows. But theirs this wreath
Of fourteen berries, that a stranger brings
With blossoms for his child that lies beneath.
For Life, their names are faint forgotten things;
But now, within the larger book of Death,
Their names are written with the names of kings.
Last updated January 14, 2019