Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

The Curfeu tolls the Knell of parting Day, The lowing Herd winds slowly o’er the Lea, The Plow-man homeward plods his weary Way, And leaves the World to Darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering Landscape on the Sight, And all the Air a solemn Stillness holds; Save where the Beetle wheels his droning Flight, And drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds.

Save that from yonder Ivy-mantled Tow’r The mopeing Owl does to the Moon complain Of such, as wand’ring near her sacred Bow’r, Molest her ancient solitary Reign.

Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew-Tree’s Shade, Where heaves the Turf in many a mould’ring Heap, Each in his narrow Cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep.