The Hillside Grave

Ten-hundred 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 shaded hush, low in the honeyed heat,
  The wild-bees hum; as if afraid to wake
  One sleeping there; with no white stone to tell
  The story of existence; but 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, only the stars can read.