 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
A FUNERAL.
Slow winds the train along Death's great highway;Of life and man sad, strange epitome!
The Young, too young to know what death may be,
Tho' tears, and sobs, and gravestones seem to say;
The Old, who in Death's footsteps of to-day
Measure their own to-morrow's. There walks she,
The widowed mother, whom Death has set free
By rude divorce, without fee'd Law's delay!
With nicest shade he touches in each face:
Rembrandtish-dark, with silvery high-lights
Of faith, in that; here, a scarce-conscious trace;
While the heir's griefs congratulate his rights!
The curious crowd, awed out of commonplace;
The priest, who Death to moralise invites!
| Stones from The Quarry | |