While Time stood by whetting his scythe.
Water may drip, and worms may writhe,
And the coffin will soon leave the chapel-nave:—
Who mourn the dead, as who soon forget,
Look into the grave, unburied yet.
First to come and last to go,
Simon waits on a fallen stone;
No tear, no fear, though he work alone
To make a grave where weeds may grow.
He fingers the sod with a tender care