Ten-Hundred Deep The Drifted Daisies Break Here At The Hill'S Foot; On Its Top, The Wheat Hangs Meagre-Bearded; And, In Vague Retreat, The Wisp-Like Blooms Of The Moth-Mulleins Shake. And Where The Wild-Pink Drops A Crimson Flake, And Morning-Glories, Like Young Lips, Make Sweet The Shaded Hush, Low In The Honeyed Heat, The Wild-Bees Hum; As If Afraid To Wake One Sleeping There; With No White Stone To Tell The Story Of Existence; But The Stem Of One Wild-Rose, Towering O'Er Brier And Weed, Where All The Day The Wild-Birds Requiem; Within Whose Shade The Timid Violets Spell An Epitaph, Only The Stars Can Read.