How those wet tombstones in the sun
   Are breathing silently together!
Their breath is seen, as though they lived,
   Like sheep, when out in frosty weather.
The dead beneath, that once could breathe,
   Are nothing now but breathless bones;
And is this breath the same as theirs,
   Now coming from their own tombstones?
So, when the end has come at last,
   And we're consigned to cold damp earth,
Our tombstones in the sun will show,
   By their vain breath, what ours was worth.