Classic Poem

Dear Alcimus, reft from your loving lord,
Slain in your spring,
Here is your wayside grave with tender sward
For covering.
No tottering pile of marble here shall stand,
That, well I know,
Vain toil should raise for Time's relentless hand
To overthrow.
Nay, rather shading pine and shapely yew
Is planted here
And meadow flowers besprinkled with the dew
Of many a tear.
And take, beloved, for memorial
This song from me,
A monument that shall not waste nor fall
While time shall be.
I pray when Lachesis has spun mine hours
To their last thread,
Thus may I lie with simple trees and flowers
Above my head.