And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,
And the bending boughs, and the breezy air—
Not there, good friends, not there!
In the city churchyard, where the grass
Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray
Of that self-same sun doth find its way
Through the heaped-up houses’ serried mass—
Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,
And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—
Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry,