That bore it of a blessed verity!
But he hath lifted it in his pure madness
As it were lightsome as a summer gladness,
And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lamp
And hung it by the marble flagstone damp.
And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould
Over the gorgeous pavement: ’tis a cold,
Sad grave; and there is many a relic there
Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,
Fell mouldering away: and he would dash