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“Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?” by Thomas Hardy

“Ah, are you digging on my grave

My loved one?–planting rue?”

–“No; yesterday he went to wed

One of the brightest wealth has bred.

‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,

‘That I should not be true.'”

“Then who is digging on my grave?

My nearest dearest kin?”

–“Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use!

What good will planting flowers produce?

No tendance of her mound can loose

Her spirit from Death’s gin.'”

“But someone digs upon my grave?

My enemy?–prodding sly?”

–“Nay; when she heard you had passed the Gate

That shuts on all flesh soon or late,

She thought you no more worth her hate,

And cares not where you lie.”

“Then, who is digging on my grave?

Say–since I have not guessed!”

–“O it is I, my mistress dear,

Your little dog, who still lives near,

And much I hope my movements here

Have not disturbed your rest?”

“Ah, yes! You dig upon my graveā€¦

Why flashed it not on me

That one true heart was left behind!

What feeling do we ever find

To equal among human kind

A dog’s fidelity?”

“Mistress, I dug upon your grave

To bury a bone, in case

I should be hungry on this spot

When passing on my daily trot.

I am sorry, but I quite forgot

It was your resting-place.”


“Epitaph” by Lascelles Abercrombie

Sir, you shall notice me: I am the Man;

I am Good Fortune: I am satisfied.

All I desired, more than I could desire,

I have: everything has gone right with me.

Life was a hiding-place that played me false;

I croucht ashamed, and still was seen and scorned:

But now I am not seen. I was a fool,

And now I know what wisdom dare not know:

For I know Nothing. I was a slave, and now

I have ungoverned freedom and the wealth

That cannot be conceived: for I have Nothing.

I lookt for beauty and I longed for rest,

And now I have perfection: nay, I am

Perfection: I am nothing, I am dead.