What is the world itself? thy world—a grave.
Where is the dust that has not been alive?
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors;
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around earth’s hollow surface shakes,
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons.
O’er devastation we blind revels keep;
Whole buried towns support the dancer’s heel.
The moist of human frame the sun exhales;
Winds scatter through the mighty void the dry; 100