Triste

I DUG beneath an apple tree
And spaded up a piece of Spode,
Two Pine-Tree shillings, and the free
Translation of a runic ode.

I dug again, and in the clod
Appeared an artifact, a shell,
An inlaid toothpick, and some odd
Rude smelling salts without the smell.

They say that when the moon is white
As blossoms on that apple tree,
A man is digging all the night.
The legend doesn’t mention me.