For marble tombs are prized above
Such brittle things as thought or love.
The crystal web of dusk now clings
From evergreen to tropic tree,
Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings
A mingled scent of mould and tea
That causes silence to be rent
By one scream—childish, but intent.
For children will not realise
That they should rest without a sound
With folded hands and downcast eyes
Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground.
And so, in sorrow, we turn back
To hasten on our high-tea track.
But after, in the night, we dream
Of Heaven as a marbled bank,
In which, in one continual stream,
We give our gold for heavenly rank,
Where each Saint, standing like a sentry,
Explains a mystic double-entry.
The Director of the Bank is God—
Stares our foes coldly in the face,
But gives us quite a friendly nod,
And beckons us to share His place.
CORPSE DAY
July 19th, 1919.