XLVII.

And from the churchyard near he gathered stones, And deftly filled the spaces ’twixt the wood; Then took what came to hand,--or clay or bones-- And wedged each interstice with worm’s old food, And when the work was done pronounced it good! Then o’er the deathful pit thus covered in He heaped the earth beside the margins strewed, Leaving but at the head a fissure thin For meagre body worn by sorrow and by sin!