He died before my day of sextonship,
And I had not the digging of this grave.'
And is this all? I thought; and do we rip
The veil of immortality, and crave
I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight
So soon and so successless? As I said,
The architect of all on which we tread
(For earth is but a tombstone) did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay