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Rh Go back to your tomb a mile away, Go back through the still bronze door. The arms which are carven upon its front Are there as they were before.

No trace of escutcheon is on this stone, And burdocks have pushed it awry, And the flowers on tiptoe out of his mouth Are staring into the sky.

Over his grave is a moan of wind, And hemlock-trees bow down, And a hemlock cone lies on the stone Stained with smoke from the town.

What have you to do in this dismal place By a dingy, broken stone? He has no hands and he has no face, And bone cannot wed with bone.

You took his flesh and you took his heart, But his bones are his own to keep. Knuckle and straight, he has them all Down in the gravel deep.

Perhaps he laughs with his hard grey mouth, Perhaps he shouts with glee, And cuddles his bones up one by one, And wishes that you could see.

Perhaps he plays jackstones with his bones, And bets how long you will stay. He knows all about those bright bronze doors Waiting a mile away.

For you in the flesh teased him in the flesh And would not let him be, Till you teased him out of his flesh for good And into Eternity.