When the head of a man lies under the sod, And, like little decrepit mice, The deepest thoughts of his brain creep out, They have nothing to do with God. As a rule they're not even pure or nice. Shall we see, in one case, what they're about? Sit down on this sun-warmed stone; And take in your hand this thing -- The skull of a man! Do you feel How they slipped out one by one, His curious thoughts? A spell can bring Them back to the place where I kneel. One is about the root of a tree And a Valentine buried there; One is about a crooked cross; A number -- ending in nought and three -- Comes next; then a half-penny's loss In the streets of Rome; then a coil of yellow hair. A honey-pot in a tea-house, near To the Penseur of the Pantheon; A table rapped by spooks, or those Who sat at it; a passing tear At Fontainebleau for Napoleon; And so the list might close. Or it might go on to other matters Still stranger, -- to geraniums blowing On sea-side walls; -- to ragged shoes Laid carelessly by skirts in tatters; To ashes in a broken furnace glowing; To drops that from a squeezed Pomegranate ooze. Enough! Put the skull back beneath the sod, And let the earth fall on it -- It is over -- A human life! -- and all his thoughts that were Not very wise, not much concerned with God, But big enough the whole round earth to cover, Like mice have scuttled back into the air. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE'S APOTHEOSIS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR SONNET: TO J.M.K. by ALFRED TENNYSON BRUCE: HOW KING ROBERT WAS HUNTED BY THE SLEUTH-HOUND by JOHN BARBOUR |