Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers 
To touch the covered corpse of him that fled 
The uplands for the fens, and rioted 
Like a sick satyr with doom?s worshippers? 
Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse
To tell the story of the life he led. 
Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, 
And let the worms be its biographers. 

Song sloughs away the sin to find redress 
In art?s complete remembrance: nothing clings
For long but laurel to the stricken brow 
That felt the Muse?s finger; nothing less 
Than hell?s fulfilment of the end of things 
Can blot the star that shines on Paris now.