Page:The whistle maker, and other poems (IA whistlemakerothe00rick).pdf/18

 

Build not for me a funeral pyre
 * Of sacred, ancient wood.

To such acclaim, who can aspire? The Master said "none good"; And I, as shadow on the wall,
 * Here for a moment thrust,

Of God an atom, yet how small,
 * How quickly turned to dust.

Let not the world in solemn state
 * This fallen form survey,

For death but opens wide the gate
 * And shows the perfect way;

But I, unworthy, there shall be,
 * Nor dare my name to own,

So much of time misspent by me;
 * So great the work not done.

Let children sing at evening's close,
 * A requiem low and sweet,

As tribute from each friend, a rose,
 * No greater boon is mete;

But passing say one prayer for me
 * That laid beneath the sod.

As I served men, so let it be,
 * I may receive from God.

December, 1912. 