If to His heart in the hushed grave and dim
We sink more near,
It shall be well — living we rest in Him.
Only I fear
Lest from my God in lonely death I lapse,
And the dumb clod
Lose him; for God is life, and death perhaps
Exile from God.
Loam. [Carl Sandburg]
In the loam we sleep,
In the cool moist loam,
To the lull of years that pass
And the break of stars.
From the loam, then,
The soft warm loam,
We rise:
To shape of rose leaf,
Of face and shoulder.
We stand, then,
To a whiff of life,
Lifted to the silver of the sun
Over and out of the loam
A day.
Hills of Home. [Witter Bynner]
Name me no names for my disease,
With uninforming breath;
I tell you I am none of these,
But homesick unto death —
Homesick for hills that I had known,
For brooks that I had crossed,
Before I met this flesh and bone
And followed and was lost. . . .
And though they break my heart at last,
Yet name no name of ills.
Say only, "Here is where he passed,
Seeking again those hills."