Dirge Over A Nameless Grave

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By yon still river, where the wave
  Is winding slow at evening's close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,
  Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O'er the fair woods the sun looks down
  Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight's mellow shades are brown,
  Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,
  And hardly waves the sapling tree:
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
  Is full of balm,-- but where is she!

They bade her wed a son of pride,
  And leave the hope she cherished long:
She loved but one,-- and would not hide
  A love which knew no wrong.

And months went sadly on,-- and years:--
  And she was wasting day by day:
At length she died, -- and many tears
  Were shed, that she should pass away.

Then came a gray old man, and knelt
  With bitter weeping by her tomb:--
And others mourned for him, who felt
  That he had sealed a daughter's doom.

The funeral train has long past on,
  And time wiped dry the father's tear!
Farewell -- lost maiden! -- there is one
  That mourns thee yet -- and he is here.

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow