Rome: At the Pyramid of Cestius. (Near the graves of Shelley & Keats)

Who, then, was Cestius,
     And what is he to me? -
Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous
     One thought alone brings he.

     I can recall no word
     Of anything he did;
For me he is a man who died and was interred
     To leave a pyramid

     Whose purpose was exprest
     Not with its first design,
Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest
     Two countrymen of mine.

     Cestius in life, maybe,
     Slew, breathed out threatening;
I know not.  This I know:  in death all silently
     He does a kindlier thing,

     In beckoning pilgrim feet
     With marble finger high
To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,
     Those matchless singers lie . . .

    --Say, then, he lived and died
     That stones which bear his name
Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;
     It is an ample fame.