Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
 
VI. The Grave’s Triumph
At an Unmarked Mound
By Alexander Macphail (1870–1949)
 
DUST unto dust? Nay, shallow laid, she stirs,
  I guess, when springtime and the streamlets call,
  Even though, the while, her ever-thickening pall
Is wrought by the deft needles of the firs.
Ashes to ashes: still, I fancy hers        5
  Must glow if any human breath at all
  Shall breathe upon them, though the winter fall
A fathom deep, and doubly sure inters.
 
Faint as she whinnies in this studied rhyme,
  Yet if a human child but shed a tear        10
  For her, she rises, answering tears with mirth,
To roam through pastures green the livelong year;
  So she lives on, till, in a little time,
  All living turns to earth: earth unto earth.
 
 
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