I DO not know just what may hap, when I go tumbling off the map, into the outer void; I hope to draw a pair of wings, and crown and robe, and kindred things, and harp of celluloid. But little do I walk the floor, or lose a chance to sleep and snore, by worrying my head about the things that may befall when I step off this whirling ball, and line up with the dead. I think I've all a man should need, in this, the simple little creed, that's pasted in my lid: "With all your fellow-men be square; be kind and just to all, nor care a cent what others did." If one is square and just and kind, I don't believe he'll be behind, when they distribute crowns; he'll be a credit to this globe, and he will swap for snowy robe, his workworn handmedowns. Religion's tangled, teased and vext, with dogma and conflicting text, by sages splitting hairs; and all that fellows really need is just that simple little creed, to climb the golden stairs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARIA WENTWORTH by THOMAS CAREW A VALEDICTION: OF WEEPING by JOHN DONNE A THANKSGIVING TO GOD [FOR HIS HOUSE] by ROBERT HERRICK LOST AND FOUND by GEORGE MACDONALD AUTUMN WOODS by ANNA M. ACKERMANN THE RIGHT MARY by CLARIBEL WEEKS AVERY |