A Dirge in a Country
Church-Yard
No other
flowers or scents cover the stench
of this
garden than those in my memory, so to lose
it would set
me back hard; thus on this lonely bench
under the
leafless tree, I hold my nose.
If it were
only a few hours every ten years
it would be
endurable, and the pain no worse
than falling
under a shadow or than stinging sun-spears
that cut
into my brain, and I could immerse
my dreams
with anticipation of relief.
The odour of
the yews weighs down my grief.
I am covered
with uncertainty,
blown hither
and thither like a fallen leaf,
the very
last, the final wisp of mortality.
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