White clover studs the velvet lawn,
And fancy forms a monument
Of marble-frieze, a tracing blent
With emerald and rosy dawn.
The carved stone is for the eye
Of passers by, who needs be told,
In characters and numbers bold,
His name; when born; when he did die.
To those who love, the strolling breeze
Is kindly whispering his name,
And who can tell from where it came,
Or whither all its music flees?
O’er those the flowers cast a spell,
The dream of a midsummer night,
And with their shapes and hues, delight
Bring forth his name in mead and dell.
And sprightly, as from Elfin coast,
There comes the boy he loved so well,
His eyes and locks and forehead tell,
He is his grandsire’s child the most.
The clover-blossoms, white as snow,
Attract his eye, as they do mine,
We gather them and lightly twine
A garland for his comely brow.
Such wreath put round his tresses dark,
Gives godlike aspect to the lad;
He laughs and runs, his heart is glad,
With gladness of a soaring lark.
I heard thee say, when life did slope:
“Man is immortal in his race;”
And now I see thee in this face,
So radiant, so full of hope.