This is only a most piteous pretence of sleep!
IN NUNHEAD CEMETERY
It is the clay that makes the earth stick to his spade;
He fills in holes like this year after year;
The others have gone; they were tired, and half afraid,
But I would rather be standing here;
There is nowhere else to go. I have seen this place
From the windows of the train that’s going past
Against the sky. This is rain on my face—
It was raining here when I saw it last.