And far above, just entering on her wane,
The full round moon with not a ray the less,
Looks calmly forth as now, upon the wilderness.
He treads the earth, nor dreams that he has trod
On human dust. The oak that o’er him waves
So proudly, tells him not how, through the sod,
Its roots sucked nourishment from human graves.
The renovated stream its channel laves
Beside his feet as freshly as of old;
Its moist bank not a lingering record saves