Here lies a humble weaver, one who wove
Well, till the mill-wheel clacked and clanged no more,
Then ate the simple bread God sends his poor,
And ever held it manna from above
Fit for an angel’s gathering. Long he strove
To help towards Heaven the friends about his door,
Versed in his Bible and the holy lore,
They learn, who up the path of duty move.
A Sabbath teacher, teaching line on line;
Through him our youth to gentleness were brought
And gentleness learned wisdom: not a child
But as it passed looked up at him and smiled.
When Death shall cut our web, may life have wrought
As fair a garment, Robert, as was thine!
(Valete: Tennyson and other Memorial Poems, p. 138)