The Loose Earth Falls In The Grave Like A Peaceful Regular Breathing; Too Like, For I Was Deceived A Moment By The Sound: It Has Covered The Heap Of Bracken That The Gardener Laid Above Him; Quiet The Spade Swings: There We Have Now His Mound. A Patch Of Fresh Earth On The Floor Of The Wood'S Renewing Chamber: All Around Is Grass And Moss And The Hyacinth'S Dark Green Sprouts: And Oaks Are Above That Were Old When His Fiftieth Sire Was A Puppy: And Far Away In The Garden I Hear The Children'S Shouts. Their Joy Is Remote As A Dream. It Is Strange How We Buy Our Sorrow For The Touch Of Perishing Things, Idly, With Open Eyes; How We Give Our Hearts To Brutes That Will Die In A Few Seasons, Nor Trouble What We Do When We Do It; Nor Would Have It Otherwise.