 | The book of the dead |  |
177
[LXXXVIII. When I am turned to mouldering dust]
When I am turned to mouldering dust,
And all my ways are lost in night,
When through me crocuses have thrust
Their pointed blades, to find the light;
And all my ways are lost in night,
When through me crocuses have thrust
Their pointed blades, to find the light;
And caught by plant and grass and grain,
My elements are made a part
Of nature, and, through sun and rain,
Swings in a flower my wayward heart;
My elements are made a part
Of nature, and, through sun and rain,
Swings in a flower my wayward heart;
Some curious mind may haply ask,
“Who penned this scrap of olden song?
Paint us the man whose woful task
Frowns in the public eye so long.”
“Who penned this scrap of olden song?
Paint us the man whose woful task
Frowns in the public eye so long.”
I answer, truly as I can;
I hewed the wood, the water drew;
I toiled along, a common man,—
A man, in all things, like to you.
I hewed the wood, the water drew;
I toiled along, a common man,—
A man, in all things, like to you.
| The book of the dead | |