Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/53

  Here! Take my cloak and hide your nakedness, Here’s silver; drink; Why think of wretchedness? His shriveled lips are curved in ridicule, A feeble smile forces his lips to part; “Why, don’t you know me any more, you fool? I am your own, your ailing withered heart.”

Oh mother, better stay at home, I think I’ll find the way. Were we to part out in the street, What would the people say?

A little pack with left-overs, Half of a wasted brain; Some withered wreaths of bygone Springs; Half of a heart in pain. A Sunday shirt of snow-white cloth Woven of dreams of life; A shroud of thoughts for when I fall Exhausted with the strife.

Two shoes protrude from out the pack, Their soles are strong and tried, The hide for them came off the back Of my relentless pride.

And when I die, my friends, wish ’twere today, Bury me in the deep woods far away, Where semi-darkness hovers through the brightest day Where it is cool, though the summer’s hot winds blow, And where, in narrow streams, the sunrays play; Where in the moss the choicest flowers grow, Where rarely sighs a plaintive forest bird, Sings not a song, but pleads in a warning tone; And where, from mankind hides, lest it be heard, Mute, hapless Love, wishing to dwell alone.

As through the woods, alone I passed life’s test, Just dreaming of my happiness and love, And when I grieved I sang to the skies above. Hence, when I die, alone I want to rest.