I STOOD to hear that bold
Sentence of grit and mould.
Earth to earth ; they thrust
On his coffin dust ;
Stones struck against his grave :
O the old days, the brave I
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.
Ashes on ashes grind :
O poor lips left behind I
Mortality turns round
On mortals in that sound :
Ears are for the knell
Of a muffled bell:
Touch, for clods of earth ;
Sight, for torture and dearth.
