| | Th’ dirt in Cheshire’s
firm earth in December,
I found in sev’nty-one,
m' brown’d nails froz’un.
Th’ spade t’was sold, an’
th’ estate, for gold.
Left only m’ suit, this almsm’n,
to meet stone to th’ engraver, o’ dear Johnson.
Th’ tour’sts o’ Tatton ‘ve
b’n henceforth left a paragraph
in their anecdot’l lett’rs,
where, at th’ base o’ th’ gard’n wall mort’r,
I so lab’red, where you so lay, so stay.
Th’ unending nights, midwint’r,
our shar’d bedding by th’ fire I pictur’d,
tho’ it kept not m' feet warm,
nor kept it, m' soul secur’d.
(inspired by this photo)
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| | Posted 6/15/2009 10:29 PM - 1 View - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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