Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
       &nbsp In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
       &nbsp A simple stone, with but a date and name,
       &nbsp Marks his secluded resting-place beside
The river that he loved and glorified.
       &nbsp Here in the autumn of his days he came,
       &nbsp But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
       &nbsp With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death!
       &nbsp Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours,
       &nbsp Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying, to leave a memory like the breath
       &nbsp Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
       &nbsp A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.