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Collected Poems



I shall not decry the dust, for the dust is immortal.
It rises not to Heaven nor descends into Hell.
Whatever befall the soul beyond the sombre portal,
for the dust there is neither flames nor asphodel.

I shall not decry the dust, for the world's storms
may harry the soul, and the last tempest break it;
but the dust flows on forever, through intricate forms,
and never the winds of time and chance may shake it.

The lamp may shine in the darkness, it may endure
eternally, or cease with death's cold gust.
I know not, care not. Of this alone am I sure—
that the dust is immortal: I shall not decry the dust.