Dead, their names that the night reclaims—alive, their
⁠works that the day relumes—
Sink and stand, as in stone and sand engraven: none
⁠may behold their tombs:
Nights and days shall record their praise while here this
⁠flower of their grafting blooms.

Flower more fair than the sun-thrilled air bids laugh and
⁠lighten and wax and rise,
Fruit more bright than the fervent light sustains with
⁠strength from the kindled skies,
Flower and fruit that the deathless root of man's love
⁠rears though the man's name dies.

Stately stands it, the work of hands unknown of:
⁠statelier, afar and near,
Rise around it the heights that bound our landward gaze
⁠from the seaboard here;
Downs that swerve and aspire, in curve and change of
⁠heights that the dawn holds dear.