Spirit Level

The statues in the Fields of Grammary, 

The coffins, too, are precious porphyry, 
And glitter on their pedestals at night, 
Or in their niches, seen by candlelight. 

Whose masks they wear, or slowly mouldering bones 
They cradle, are less conscious than the stone, 
And day and night, the sunshine and the rain, 
Alone or not, to them is all the same.