The Bindweed Roots Pierce Down Deeper Than Men Do Lie, Laid In Their Dark-Shut Graves Their Slumbering Kinsmen By. Yet What Frail Thin-Spun Flowers She Casts Into The Air, To Breathe The Sunshine, And To Leave Her Fragrance There. But When The Sweet Moon Comes, Showering Her Silver Down, Half-Wreath'D In Faint Sleep, They Droop Where They Have Blown. So All The Grass Is Set, Beneath Her Trembling Ray, With Buds That Have Been Flowers, Brimmed With Reflected Day.