 | The Literary Works of James Smetham |  |
272
AN ANTIDOTE TO CARE
Think that the grass upon thy grave is green;Think that thou seest thine own empty chair;
The empty garments thou wast wont to wear;
The empty room where long thy haunt hath been:
Think that the lane, the meadow, and the wood
And mountain summit feel thy foot no more,
Nor the loud thoroughfare, nor sounding shore:
All mere blank space where thou thyself hast stood.
Amid this thought-created silence say
To thy stripped soul, what am I now and where?
Then turn and face the petty narrowing care
Which has been gnawing thee for many a day,
And it will die as dies a wailing breeze
Lost in the solemn roar of boundless seas.
| The Literary Works of James Smetham | |