Churchill's Grave: A Fact Literally Rendered
I
stood
beside
the
grave
of
him
who
blazed
The
comet
of
a
season,
and
I
saw
The
humblest
of
all
sepulchres,
and
gazed
With
not
the
less
of
sorrow
and
of
awe
On
that
neglected
turf
and
quiet
stone,
With
name
no
clearer
than
the
names
unknown,
Which
lay
unread
around
it;
and
I
ask'd
The
Gardener
of
that
ground,
why
it
might
be
That
for
this
plant
strangers
his
memory
task'd,
Through
the
thick
deaths
of
half
a
century?
And
thus
he
answered
-
'
Well,
I
do
not
know
Why
frequent
travellers
turn
to
pilgrims
so;
He
died
before
my
day
of
Sextonship,
And
I
had
not
the
digging
of
this
grave.'
And
is
this
all?
I
thought
-
and
do
we
rip
The
veil
of
Immortality,
and
crave
I
know
not
what
of
honour
and
of
light
Through
unborn
ages,
to
endure
this
blight,
So
soon,
and
so
successless?
As
I
said,
The
Architect
of
all
on
which
we
tread,
For
Earth
is
but
a
tombstone,
did
essay,
To
extricate
remembrance
from
the
clay,
Whose
minglings
might
confuse
a
Newton's
thought,
Were
it
not
that
all
life
must
end
in
one,
Of
which
we
are
but
dreamers;-
as
he
caught,
As
'twere
the
twilight
of
a
former
Sun,
Thus
spoke
he,-
'I
believe
the
man
of
whom
You
wot,
who
lies
in
this
selected
tomb,
Was
a
most
famous
writer
in
his
day,
And
therefore
travellers
step
from
out
their
way
To
pay
him
honour,-
and
myself
whate'er
Your
honour
pleases:'
-
then
most
pleased
I
shook
From
out
my
pocket's
avaricious
nook
Some
certain
coins
of
silver,
which
as
'twere
Perforce
I
gave
this
man,
though
I
could
spare
So
much
but
inconveniently:-Ye
smile,
I
see
ye,
ye
profane
ones!
all
the
while,
Because
my
homely
phrase
the
truth
would
tell.
You
are
the
fools,
not
I
-
for
I
did
dwell
With
a
deep
thought,
and
with
a
soften'd
eye,
On
that
Old
Sexton's
natural
homily,
In
which
there
was
Obscurity
and
Fame
-
The
Glory
and
the
Nothing
of
a
Name.
