Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/67

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51

AYLMER’S FIELD.

1798.

Dust are our frames; and gilded dust, our prideLooks only for a moment whole and sound;Like that long-buried body of the king,Found lying with his urns and ornaments,Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven,Slipt into ashes and was found no more.
 Here is a story which in rougher shapeCame from a grizzled cripple, whom I sawSunning himself in a waste field alone—Old, and a mine of memories—who had served,Long since, a bygone Rector of the place,And been himself a part of what he told.
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