The Poet's Death

The world is taking little heed And plods from day to day: The vulgar flourish like a weed, The learned pass away.

We miss him on the summer path The lonely summer day, Where mowers cut the pleasant swath And maidens make the hay.

The vulgar take but little heed; The garden wants his care; There lies the book he used to read, There stands the empty chair.

The boat laid up, the voyage oer, And passed the stormy wave, The world is going as before, The poet in his grave.