At the Grave of Henry Vaughan

XXIII

Above the voiceful windings of a river
An old green slab of simply graven stone
Shuns notice, overshadowed by a yew.
Here Vaughan lies dead, whose name flows on for ever
Through pastures of the spirit washed with dew
And starlit with eternities unknown.
Here sleeps the Silurist; the loved physician;
The face that left no portraiture behind;
The skull that housed white angels and had vision
Of daybreak through the gateways of the mind.
 Here faith and mercy, wisdom and humility
 (Whose influence shall prevail for evermore)
 Shine. And this lowly grave tells Heaven's tranquillity
 And here stand I, a suppliant at the door.
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