Bore up to heaven as if in protest mute
Its clustering load of ghostly charnel fruit,[13]
The swaddled forms of all the village dead—
Maid, lusty warrior, and toothless hag,
The infant and the conjurer with his bag,
Peacefully rotting in their airy bed.
As on a battle plain she saw them lie,
Fouling the fairness of the moonlit sky;
And heavily there flapped above her head,
Some floating drapery or tress of hair,