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I do not know who sleeps beneath, His history or name— Whether if, lonely in his life, He is in death the same: Whether he died unloved, unmourned, The last leaf on the bough; Or, if some desolated hearth Is weeping for him now.

Perhaps this is too fanciful:— Though single be his sod, Yet not the less it has around The presence of his God. It may be weakness of the heart, But yet its kindliest, best: Better if in our selfish world It could be less represt.