Classic Poem

'T IS strange to think on this green earth
How many spots there be,
Mementoes dear of grief or mirth,
Unknown to you or me!

The grot, the glen, the old gray tower,
Gaily we saunter by,
Where ofttimes in a pensive hour
Another stops to sigh.

Each object speaks, if all were known,
Heard by none else beside,
To some one heart in solemn tone,
Recalling what has died.

Thus wide and far, o'er isle and main,
Uncounted memories dwell
Of tears, of guilt, of love, of pain,
Far more than we can tell.

O, let us tread with thoughts profound
Where'er our path may be;
All earth is consecrated ground
To him who thinks with me!