The Burial of Sophocles
Ah! Master, when the blast uproots a tree,
Its form lies bedded—but a god beneath
Treasures its leaves and perish'd fragrancy
To pierce anew the pregnant soils of death:
So from thy poetry, thy spirit-tomb,
Shall burgeon wealth of tears and tenderness
And beauty, when forgotten is this pit
And drain'd is Athens' doom
Come, leave his body, friends, to Earth's caress.—
Oh, lightly, lightly. Earth, encompass it!
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