From the stone coffin, I Scooped up limed grit and sand Of what had been a man; I held him in my hand.
I held him in my hand, Who suffered me to know What air had burnt to dust Three hundred years ago.
A speaker reaches into an old stone coffin in a churchyard and comes up with a handful of "limed grit and sand." That's all that remains of a person, and the speaker knows it. The second stanza opens by repeating the line "I held him in my hand," as if the speaker needs to say it twice to believe it. The repetition slows everything down and makes the moment feel almost like a ritual.
What stands out is the tone. There's no horror here, and no grand speech about death. The speaker feels something closer to awe, even gratitude: the dead man "suffered me to know" what time had done, as if he had quietly allowed this lesson. The phrase "burnt to dust" is striking, since it's air, not fire, that has destroyed him, slowly and without drama. The mood is hushed, intimate and humbling. A whole life, three hundred years gone, is weightless enough to sit in a palm.