Classic Poem

If I were stone dead and buried under,
Is there a part of me would still wander,
Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack,
With no body to its back?

When brain grew mealy, turned to dust,
Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust?
Immortal Soul grow imbecile,
Having no brain to think and feel?

—Or grant it be as priests say,
And growth come on my death-day:
Suppose Growth came: would Certainty?
Or would Mind still a quester be,

Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out,
And wander in a larger doubt?
—Alas! If to mind's petty stir
Death prove so poor a silencer:

Though veins when emptied a few hours
Of this hot blood, might suckle flowers:
From spiritual flames that scorch me
Never, never were I free!

Then back, Death, till I call thee!
Hast come too soon!
—Thou silly worm, gnaw not
Yet thine intricate cocoon.