| |
| NIGH to a grave that was newly made, | |
| Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; | |
| His work was done, and he paused to wait | |
| The funeral train at the open gate. | |
| A relic of bygone days was he, | 5 |
| And his locks were white as the foamy sea; | |
| And these words came from his lips so thin: | |
| “I gather them in: I gather them in. | |
| |
| “I gather them in! for man and boy, | |
| Year after year of grief and joy, | 10 |
| I ’ve builded the houses that lie around, | |
| In every nook of this burial ground; | |
| Mother and daughter, father and son, | |
| Come to my solitude, one by one: | |
| But come they strangers or come they kin— | 15 |
| I gather them in, I gather them in. | |
| |
| “Many are with me, but still I ’m alone, | |
| I ’m king of the dead—and I make my throne | |
| On a monument slab of marble cold; | |
| And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold: | 20 |
| Come they from cottage or come they from hall, | |
| Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! | |
| Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin— | |
| I gather them in, I gather them in. | |
| |
| “I gather them in, and their final rest | 25 |
| Is here, down here, in earth’s dark breast!” | |
| And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train | |
| Wound mutely o’er that solemn plain! | |
| And I said to my heart, when time is told, | |
| A mightier voice than that sexton’s old | 30 |
| Will sound o’er the last trump’s dreadful din— | |
| “I gather them in, I gather them in.” | |
| |
