When Finis Comes
A tiny cask of ashes.—
A date upon a stone,—
Some praise (misplaced), a name (misspelled)—
And one who weeps—alone!
Behold, O eager striver,
The sum of all your strife:
Forgotten ere your grave is green,
Inglorious in life.
For not thrice three-score seasons,
Nor ten-fold fever-fret
Could furnish folk good reasons
Why they should not forget.
Think then what nameless millions
Are sleeping on earth's breast.
Give up—O Heart!—give up your dream,
And slumber with the rest.
A date upon a stone,—
Some praise (misplaced), a name (misspelled)—
And one who weeps—alone!
Behold, O eager striver,
The sum of all your strife:
Forgotten ere your grave is green,
Inglorious in life.
For not thrice three-score seasons,
Nor ten-fold fever-fret
Could furnish folk good reasons
Why they should not forget.
Think then what nameless millions
Are sleeping on earth's breast.
Give up—O Heart!—give up your dream,
And slumber with the rest.
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