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Augustine Duganne, a New York legislator, soldier and poet, asked in an 1863 poem: “For what hath all this Southland been / But one white sepulchre of sin / So fair without — so foul within?”

In the back of the room was a marble fireplace, big as a sepulchre, and a globed gasolier—dripping with prisms and strings of crystal beading—sparkled in the dim.

The house was a sepulchre, our fear and suffering lay buried in the ruins.

En route, we passed a cemetery with a series of gravestones and sepulchres painted ornately with American flags, an indication that the deceased had died as immigrants in the U.S.

With the crackling warmth of the fire and the smell of purifying incense the room seemed less of a sepulchre.