Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are!
And yet was what you are; from ear to ear
It laughs not—there is now no fleshy bar
So called; the Antic long hath ceased to hear,
But still he smiles; and whether near or far,
He strips from man that mantle (far more dear
Than even the tailor’s), his incarnate skin,
White, black, or copper—the dead bones will grin.