THE dead man lay beneath the mold, But still his spirit knew The soft stir of each blade of grass As toward the sun it grew; He heard the far-flung church bells ring, He heard the joyous sound Of children's voices, as they played Above, on April ground;— And he felt the little, red-tipped worm Go nosing round and round. He felt the winter rain drip down; It ached against his bones— And his was not a plight where one Might ease oneself with groans, For he had to lie forever dumb There in the dreadful tomb Till all the graves gaped open wide At the crashing Trump of Doom, Till interminable time had flown And the universe grew gray, Ere the finger of Eternity Would touch his eyes with day. He could not move, he could not weep, Nor might one finger strive To lift itself; he could not sleep, For his conscience kept alive; His dreadful conscience kept alive, (Oblivion held no term) And it preyed upon his spirit worse Than midnight or the worm: O, if this be what men call "death," I do not wish to die Till the sun goes out like an unfilled lamp, And God folds up the sky! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A DEAD LOVER by LOUISE BOGAN WHAT I'VE BELIEVED IN by JAMES GALVIN TO MARY CHURCH TERRELL - LECTURER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS by EDWIN MARKHAM SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: DIPPOLD THE OPTICIAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IMANUEL EHRENHARDT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |