At Hawthorne's Grave

Can any famous marble whose broad shaft
Is lettered full with words of life and death,
Whose base and cap assert the sculptor's craft
In some device that reins the rapid breath;
Can any meet the eye with such a power
As just this fragrant word of simple place?
Had ever small, white stone so rich a dower?
Ever such sovereignty, so little space
As this? Yet best befitted in a word;
Naught would one add for majesty of Fame;
Yet standing here, the fancy in me stirred,
To hedge his rest with that which bears his name,
That nature might in his memorial share,
Divulging, with her blossoms, who lies there.

poem by Charlotte Fiske Bates from Risk, and Other Poems (1879)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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