Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/94

86 To a SEXTON.

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy bone-house bone on bone?

'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

——These died in peace each with the other,

Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform eight feet square

Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fire-side is there.