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.
