Who in this small urn reposes, Celt or Roman, man or woman, Steel of steel, or rose of roses? Whose the dust set rustling slightly, In its hiding-place abiding, When this urn is lifted lightly? Sure some mourner deemed immortal What thou holdest and enfoldest, Little house without a portal! When the artificers had slowly Formed thee, turned thee, sealed thee, burned thee, Freighted with thy freightage holy, Sure he thought there's no forgetting All the sweetness and completeness Of his rising, of her setting, And so bade them grave no token, Generation, age, or nation, On thy round side still unbroken;— Let them score no cypress verses, Funeral glories, prayers, or stories, Mourner's tears, or mourner's curses, Round thy brown rim time hath polished,— Left thee dumbly cold and comely As some shrine of gods abolished. Ah, 'twas well! It scarcely matters What is sleeping in the keeping Of this house of human tatters,— Steel of steel, or rose of roses, Man or woman, Celt or Roman, If but soundly he reposes! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BOSTON HYMN; READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863 by RALPH WALDO EMERSON SONNET: 25 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AN OLD BATTLE-FIELD by FRANK LEBBY STANTON THE LOVER: A BALLAD by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU |