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what's o'clock
175
There are nests of worms in the underground,
And the grass-roots wind across,
Like a counterpane to keep out the rain
Is the green-eyed, clutching moss.
And the grass-roots wind across,
Like a counterpane to keep out the rain
Is the green-eyed, clutching moss.
Go back to your tomb a mile away,
Go back through the still bronze door.
The arms which are carven upon its front
Are there as they were before.
Go back through the still bronze door.
The arms which are carven upon its front
Are there as they were before.
No trace of escutcheon is on this stone,
And burdocks have pushed it awry,
And the flowers on tiptoe out of his mouth
Are staring into the sky.
And burdocks have pushed it awry,
And the flowers on tiptoe out of his mouth
Are staring into the sky.
Over his grave is a moan of wind,
And hemlock-trees bow down,
And a hemlock cone lies on the stone
And hemlock-trees bow down,
And a hemlock cone lies on the stone
