By the pyramid of Caius Sestius,
Unmarked for honour or remembrance save
By a meek epitaph, there is a grave
For sake of which, o'er oceans perilous,
As to a shrine, uncounted pilgrims come;
Each bringing tribute unto one who gave
Life beauty,—the one thing man still must crave,
Though worshiping from far, with passion dumb.
The Eternal City by the Tiber holds,
In the broad view of Buonarotti's dome,—
With all its treasure,—naught that is more dear
Than the low mound that easefully enfolds
The English poet who lies buried here
By the pyramid outside the walls of Rome.