I STOOD to hear that bold Sentence of grit and mould, @3Earth to earth@1; they thrust On his coffin dust; Stones struck against his grave: Oh, the old days, the brave! Just with a pebble's fall, Grave-digger, you turn all Bliss to bereaving; To catch the cleaving Of Atropa's fine shears Would less hurt human ears. Live senses that death dooms! For friendship in dear rooms, Slow-lighting faces, Hand-clasps, embraces, Askes on askes grind: Oh, poor lips left behind! |