 | My Sonnets |  |
47
[Dust unto dust!—The breathing form, that trod]
Dust unto dust!—The breathing form, that trod,With stately step and regal port, the earth,
Death moulders to what 'twas before its birth.
Swiftly the past entombs man's years. This god
Of earth commingles with the trodden clod,
Forgotten. O, if pity kill not mirth,
Spirits, that know not death, in him, jest, worth
Their smiles, must find, for, lo, one dreams his nod
Should bow his fellows, formed, like him, to dwell,
Coequal, each, with all; nay, with such awe
He hedges his mortality,—so well
He apes divinity, that none, before
His footstool, crouch not down,—none dare to be,
In speech as well as thought, as nature made them, free.
November 9th, 1842.
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