Classic Poem

Carry the coffin down into the hall.
For God's sake, mind how you do it!
And lay it in there without any pall.
The room looks just as he knew it.
You might ask your fellows to wipe their feet.
God! These professional buryers!
In the kitchen beyond you'll find something to eat.
Fancy crossing the Styx with these ferryers!

'Morning, Aunt Sophy. Ah! Raining still?
Lord! What a hat to wear!
They're all in the front room, except Auntie Lil.
O the sepulchral air!
Morning, Horatio. Put your coat here.
You shine at a function like this.
Yes, for ever so long he'd been awfully queer.
You might give the pathetic a miss.

He was just seventy-three this year, I believe.
Seventy-three years of nothing!
No; over such a life one shouldn't grieve.
I should like to know who we are bluffing.
Yes, it'll be a long drive in the wet.
Hypocrite waste of a day!
D'you go on to Town, or come back? I forget.
Damn you, get out of my way!

Jane, take in the food. Is there plenty of ham?
Feigned misery needs to be full.
No, thanks; I shall wait here and go as I am.
Having something to do is a pull.
This way. Mind the mat! By the window I think.
What if they slipped and it fell!
Oh yes! Ask the cook. They can all have a drink.
These flowers suffocate with their smell.

Seventy-three years—and you're now in a box.
Are you all here, I wonder?
Seventy-three years—and you ran on the rocks:
What when the ship goes under?
Flotsam and jetsam washed on the shore,
Baubles for children to play with;
Will your strange spirit come here any more,
Playthings of life to be gay with?

Seventy-three years—and for thirty at least,
Smiles but of self-satisfaction:
Life, a perpetual alderman's feast:
Laughter?—at some greedy action.
Ah! we'll go back. You were once a small boy
Back—to the lap of your mother:
Into the world came a quota of joy
Seventy-three years tried to smother.

Tried, and succeeded, ostensibly, well;
So there is something to mourn for.
I shall lament with the cemetery bell
Joy and delight you were born for:
Grieve that they never grew up so that I,
Child of a late generation,
Could have put into your confidence my
Infantile grief or elation.

But, a joy born—like a beam of the sun
Shot and then swept out of sight—
Seventy-three thousand long ages may run
Ere the effect of the light,
Which for an instant illumined a sphere,
Can be diminished one whit:
So with the joy that was born with you here,
Earth is made richer by it.

Yes, a most honourable life, as you say.
Liar! O why do we lie!
Your carriage, Nancy; will you come this way?
Now the crawl! When shall we fly?
I shall come on in the last coach of all.
Pray God I have it alone.
Yes, that was it: it was ‘one clear call.’
Lord God of Honesty, groan!