COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
This grave, moss-grown, marks him who once went free;
Now pent—no, portionless; from sharp life lost;
Mere mouldered bone-work. His unheeded name
Who, curious, pausing, may decipher? See;
Thin gulled by running rain, by chipping frost
Frustrated, muffled under a yellow, same,
Fat scurf of lichen, the dim characters
Withstand conjecture, aimless and awry.
Yet here lies one who, living, peopled earth
With indestructible fancy. Now he hears
No nature’s music, who for hours would lie
To hear the blue-caps click their quick, small mirth.