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Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost
In some abstraction;—gracefully he stood,
The semblance bearing of a sculptured Form
That leans upon a monumental Urn
In peace, from morn to night, from year to year.
Him from that posture did the Sexton rouze;
Who entered, humming carelessly a tune,
Continuation haply of the notes
That had beguiled the work from which he came
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung;
To be deposited, for future need,
In their appointed place. The pale Recluse
Withdrew; and straight we followed,—to a spot
Where sun and shade were intermixed; for there
A broad Oak, stretching forth its leafy arms
From an adjoining pasture, overhung
Small space of that green church-yard with a light
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall
My ancient Friend and I together took
Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake,
Standing before us. "Did you note the mien
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl,
