Classic Poem

Only a box, secure and strong,
Rough, and wooden, and six feet long,
Lying here in the drizzling rain,
Waiting to take the up-bound train.

Only its owner, just inside,
Cold, and livid, and glassy eyed;
Little to him if the train be late!
Nothing has he to do but wait.

Only an open grave, somewhere,
Ready to close when he gets there;
Turts and grasses and flowerets sweet,
Ready to press him neath their feet.

Only a band of friends at home,
Waiting to see the traveller come;
Naught he will tell of distant lands;
He cannot even press their hands.

He has no stories weird and bright,
He has no gifts for a child's delight;
He did not come with anything;
He had not even himself to bring.

Yet they will softly him await.
And he will move about in state;
They will give him, when he appears,
Love, and pity, and tender tears.

Only a box, secure and strong,
Rough and wooden, and six feet long;
Angels guide that soulless breast
Into a long and peaceful rest!