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And far from the shade of the church's eaves—
They buried the Poet with thoughts of shame,
And not as one who believes.
Then the tall grass flower with lolling head,
Who is king of all flowers that twine or creep
On graves where few come to weep,
To the briar, and bindweed, and vetch, he said,
"Lo, here is a grave of the lonely dead;
Let us go up and haste while his soul may sleep,
To make the fresh earth our bed."
Then the rootless briar and bindweed mean,
And the grovelling vetch, with the pale trefoil
That cumbers the fruitless soil,
Yea, the whole strange rout of the earth's unclean
Went up to the grave that was fresh and green;
And together they wrought there so dense a coil
The grave was no longer seen.
