Classic Poem

It seems so strange men walk about the street
Moving as if with automatic will,
While you lie without motion, hushed and still,
Somehow, though dead, so perfect and complete.
We hurry on, stooped to our small affairs,
Doing what matters not with serious face,
Slandering, loving, lying, 'changing wares —
But you abide forever in one place.
Pity us, from your calm, majestic sleep,
Pity us, if we laugh or if we weep:
'T is you who live; death is for such as we
Who move within the shadow of his wrath
While earth goes onward down its thundering path
Hurling us all across eternity.