Digging

What matter makes my spade for tears or mirth,

Letting down two clay pipes into the earth?

The one I smoked, the other a

Of Blenheim,

Ramillies, and

Perhaps.

The dead man's

Lies represented lightly with my own,

A yard or two nearer the living

Than bones of ancients who, amazed to

Almighty God erect the mastodon,

Once laughed, or wept, in this same light of day.