Page:The town down the river; a book of poems.djvu/77

 Few now remain who return by the weed-weary path to his cottage, Drawn by the scene as it was—met by the chill and the change; Few are alive who report, and few are alive who remember, More of him now than a name carved somewhere on the sea.

"Where is he lying?" I ask, and the lights in the valley are nearer; Down to the streets I go, down to the murmur of men. Down to the roar of the sea in a ship may be well for another— Down where he lies to-night, silent, and under the storms.