AN EPITAPH ON A GOLDFISH

Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lies,

Here last September was he laid,

Poppies these that were his eyes,

Of fish-bones were these bluebells made.

His fins of gold that to and fro

Waved and waved so long ago,

Still as petals wave and wave

To and fro above his grave.

Hearken too! for so his knell

Tolls all day each tiny bell.