Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/330

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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.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly Daughter lies,

From weakness, now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.