IN the grave will be no space For the purple of the proud -- They must mingle with the crowd: In the wrappings of a shroud Jewels would be out of place. There no laughter shall be heard, Nor the heavy sound of sighs: Sleep shall seal the aching eyes: All the ancient and the wise There shall utter not a word. Yet it may be we shall hear How the mounting skylark sings And the bell for matins rings; Or perhaps the whisperings Of white Angels sweet and clear. What a calm when all is done, Wearing vigil, prayer, and fast! All fulfilled from first to last: All the length of time gone past And eternity begun. Fear and hope and chastening rod Urge us on the narrow way: Bear we still as best we may Heat and burden of the day, Struggling, panting up to God. |