The Old Man's Grave

Make it where the winds may sweep Through the pine boughs soft and deep, And the murmur of the sea Come across the orient lea, And the falling raindrops sing Gently to his slumbering. Make it where the meadows wide Greenly lie on every side, Harvest fields he reaped and trod, Westering slopes of clover sod, Orchard lands where bloom and blow Trees he planted long ago. Make it where the starshine dim May be always close to him, And the sunrise glory spread Lavishly around his bed. And the dewy grasses creep Tenderly above his sleep. Since these things to him were dear Through full many a well-spent year, It is surely meet their grace Should be on his resting-place, And the murmur of the sea Be his dirge eternally.