Look with the same unwithering face,
They wore three thousand years ago.
There Silence, thoughtful god, who loves
The neighbourhood of death, in groves
Of Asphodel lies hid, and weaves
His hushing spell among the leaves—
Nor ever noise disturbs the air,
Save the low, humming, mournful sound
Of priests, within their shrines at prayer,
For the fresh dead, entombed around."