Digging
WHAT matter makes my spade for tears or mirth,Letting down two clay pipes into the earth?The one I smoked, the other a soldierOf Blenheim, Ramillies, and MalplaquetPerhaps. The dead man's immortalityLies represented lightly with my own,A yard or two nearer the living airThan bones of ancients who, amazed to seeAlmighty God erect the mastodon,Once laughed, or wept, in this same light of day.
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