You hear the worm his length unfold
And slime across your frail roof-plank,
And tap, and vanish, like the rank
Foul memory of a sin untold.
And this your penance in the tomb:
To weave upon the mind's swift loom
White robes, to garb remorsefully
A Better Life—which may not be
Or, when it comes, may seal your doom.
Thus, side by side, through all the year,