Sonnets from a Lock Box - Part of 11
What dreams burn here, never to be revealed?
What visions of what archangelic things!
As many lives in this rich gold lie sealed
As in great tombs lie buried ancient kings.
Pick! Pick! Last night I heard the solemn spade
With clocklike sound and unremitting toil
Dig its slow sense of time into the soil.
The box was lowered. The pious parson prayed.
Blow, Gabriel, on thy trumpet! With that sound
Sing up men's bodies to a glorious morn.
Men's souls sleep here. Where is that godlike horn
Shall call them up out of this glittering ground?
Out from this cruel earth, so bright, so cold,
Live things spring not from its unliving mold.
What visions of what archangelic things!
As many lives in this rich gold lie sealed
As in great tombs lie buried ancient kings.
Pick! Pick! Last night I heard the solemn spade
With clocklike sound and unremitting toil
Dig its slow sense of time into the soil.
The box was lowered. The pious parson prayed.
Blow, Gabriel, on thy trumpet! With that sound
Sing up men's bodies to a glorious morn.
Men's souls sleep here. Where is that godlike horn
Shall call them up out of this glittering ground?
Out from this cruel earth, so bright, so cold,
Live things spring not from its unliving mold.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.