William Wordsworth



To a Sexton



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William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

To a Sexton



Let thy wheel-barrow aloneó
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
íTis already like a hill
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,ó
Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform, eight feet square,
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrewís whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simonís sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardenerís prideó
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!





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