IN AN OLD BURYING GROUND.

This is strange heraldry The graveyard paints For him who best perceives Its curious feints. Under its leaning stones Sailors and parson men Titles and beggarmen Maidens and crones, Mingle their bones. They laugh at dreams we weave Of equality Under the sun Yet here it’s done! Under the frail grass-spear All these are equal here None lie alone. Greek name and Bible name Pagan and prude; Under the grass Not any class. Fine old aristocrat— Right near his trimkept plat The cobbler’s lass! Also I notice near Sun shining full and clear Violets as blue. The man who used to swear Sleeping quite calmly there Where Quakers do. Dreamer and prig and crank; Humble and full of swank Level they rank To us they all seem just Handfuls of human dust Even and blank. And this I’ve come to hold One may be quite an old Aristocrat; But when one comes to die Things are Democracy And that is that!