Classic Poem

Weary was I of toil and strife,
— And weary of drawing breath;
And still, whatever I did for Life
— It went the way to death.

It went adown the dusty road,
— Whence there is no recall;
None may bear another's load,
— For the load is borne by all.

" Some of the souls escape and fly,
— Tho' the grave to us be dumb,
They do not know what it is to die,
— For they make the world-to-come.

" And see, of the death of the body of man
— Is made the wholesome earth,
The sun will shine and the wind will fan
— And flowers be brought to birth.

" There's many a bough that greenlier swings
— Where he hath measured his span,
But, tell me, where is the flower that springs
— From the death of the soul of man? "

Then was I ware of a little child,
— With eyes that I could not see;
For all they were so gentle and mild,
— They shook the heart in me.

As he stood beneath the tree of thorn,
— Under the dazzling blue,
He was all the men that ever were born,
— And all the women too.

The roses twined around his feet,
— The birds about him sang,
And all the beasts of the field to greet
— Their lord and master sprang.

Of the rotten souls to earth that fell
— Is made this awful flower;
And he rules the living, straight from hell,
— With the very devil's power.