Let go your greedy hold, I say!
Let go your hold! Do not refuse
’Till death comes by and shakes you loose,
And sends you shamed upon your way.
What if the sun should keep his gold?
The rich moon lock her silver up?
What if the gold-clad buttercup
Became a miser, mean and old?
Ah, me! the coffins are so true
In all accounts, the shrouds so thin,
That down there you might sew and sew,
Nor ever sew one pocket in.
And all that you can hold of lands
Down there, below the grass, down there,
Will only be that little share
You hold in your two dust-full hands.
XII.
She comes! she comes! The stony floor
Speaks out! And now the rusty door
At last has just one word this day,
With mute religious lips, to say.
She comes! she comes! And lo, her face
Is upward, radiant, fair as prayer!
So pure here in this holy place,
Where holy peace is everywhere.
Her upraised face, her face of light
And loveliness, from duty done,
Is like a rising orient sun
That pushes back the brow of night.
How brave, how beautiful is truth!
Good deeds untold are like to this.
But fairest of all fair things is
A pious maiden in her youth: