Digging

3 0 00

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 soldier

Of Blenheim, Ramillies, and Malplaquet

Perhaps. The dead man’s immortality

Lies represented lightly with my own,

A yard or two nearer the living air

Than bones of ancients who, amazed to see

Almighty God erect the mastodon,

Once laughed, or wept, in this same light of day.