Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.

“ Of the young muse that haunts each wooded dell
With songs of that "rough land" he loved so long and well!
Here he sleeps; he cannot die!
As evening's long-drawn sigh,
Lifting the rose-leaves on his peaceful mound,
Spreads all their sweets around,
So, laden with his song, the breezes blow
From where the rustling sedge
Frets our rude ocean's edge
To the smooth sea beyond the peaks of snow.
His soul the air enshrines and leaves but dust below! ”