MY DEAD
Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said—"My darling, come home to me."
Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head—
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.
DUST TO DUST
Dust to dust:
Fall and perish love and lust:
Life is one brief autumn day;
Sin and sorrow haunt the way
To the narrow house of clay,
Clutching at the good and just:
Dust to dust.
Dust to dust:
Still we strive and toil and trust,
From the cradle to the grave:
Vainly crying, "Jesus, save!"
Fall the coward and the brave,
Fall the felon and the just:
Dust to dust.
Dust to dust:
Hark, I hear the wintry gust;
Yet the roses bloom to-day,
Blushing to the kiss of May,
While the north winds sigh and say:
"Lo we bring the cruel frost—
Dust to dust."
Dust to dust:
Yet we live and love and trust,
Lifting burning brow and eye
To the mountain peaks on high:
From the peaks the ages cry,
Strewing ashes, rime and rust:
"Dust to dust!"
Dust to dust:
What is gained when all is lost?
Gaily for a day we tread—
Proudly with averted head
O'er the ashes of the dead—
Blind with pride and mad with lust:
Dust to dust.