Poets

I saw the soldiers come today From battlefield afar; No conquerors rode before their way On his triumphal car;

Nigh to a grave that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; His work was done, and he paused to wait

Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds Which on the sky so movelessly repose? Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds Of yonder vessel? Are these imaged shows Of outline, figure, form, or is there life