Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/198

 The Body to the poor Soul said: Oh, murmur not, be comforted! We all should quietly endure The wounds of Fate, which none can cure. I was the lamp's wick, and to dust Consume; but thou, the Spirit, must Be saved with care, and lifted far To shine in Heaven, a little star Of purest light. I am but cinder, Mere matter, rubbish, rotten tinder, Losing the shape we took at birth, Mouldering again to earth in earth. Now, fare thee well, and grieve no more! Perchance life is not such a bore In Heaven, as you expect up there. If you should meet the old Great Bear (Not Meyer-Bear ) i' the starry climes, Greet him from me a thousand times!