OF old, a man who died Had, in his pride, Woman and steed and slave Heaped at his grave; Given this sudden end Their souls to send, Still serving, whitherward Their lord had fared. Grown wiser, we, to-day, A happier way Find for our love and grief And death's relief: Flowers their fragrance strew Where he must go, Gladden the narrow gate Whereat we wait. And there be those of us Who, amorous Of life and hope, can see How gleefully He, lonely, greets beyond These flowers so fond, Even as our common doom Saddens their bloom. |