Men rooted up a fountain-base that lay
Whitened like bleaching bones,
Or into new walls piled, with a weary care.
The weary, ancient stones.
And all about the slowly-growing work,
In warlike mantles drest,
Disputing with the spade for every sod,
The angry poppies prest.
And when I thought how fate uproots always
My gardens, budding sweet,