“O sexton, find for me that heart
From which you snatched the song you sing!”
The sexton wondered long and sought,
Save bones he could not find a thing.
Then from his grave he rose and spake:
“That, sir, with us no difference makes,
Ten hearts can’st thou perchance possess,
The grave wastes all of them it takes.”
He finished digging, and I sighed:
“O heart of mine, there thou didst end.”