A lonely burial-ground is on Cape Cod.
Claiming the privilege of age, each stone
Leans as it will, its scarred front overflown
With winged cherubic head. By grace of God,
Fulfilled in nature's gentle period,
All ghastly blazonry of skull and bone,
Muffled in moss and lichen-overgrown
Hath made its peace with beauty. Seldom trod
These grasses are, where, ghosts of old regret,
Once-tended vines run wild, but should a guest
Stoop there, this weathered epitaph to trace,
'Twill whisper him of all the human race.
Here lies, beneath a heartsease coverlet,
"Patience, wife of Experience," at rest.