Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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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