Classic Poem

Church of the Hamlet! thy grey tower and thee
Coeval elms hide from the passer by:
Temple within a temple! thou can'st see,
Unseen thyself, the pilgrim, quietly
Seated below; or coming funeral;
Or wedding-party's quicker pace, to me,
Sadder than funeral's slow solemnity,
Its young, white bearers, or its sable pall.
But I tread on thy graves. Lo, fleshly blown,
June's trelliced flowers o'er-top the ancient wall
Of the good curate's garden! peeping down,
As if to read, with me, on stones moss-grown,
Names of the dead! whose doings none recall;
Whose doom—Oblivion! is the doom of all.