Classic Poem

BORNE , as an arrow from the bow,
Upon impetuous wing,
When I have left my body here below,
A pale and hideous thing;

Ah, then what hurrying there will be
To hide it out of sight!
Which done, the world will think no more of me,
Than I perchance of it.

“God's peace be with him!” they will say,
And laugh with their next breath;
O busy world, how poor is thy display
Of sympathy with death!

And thou, who must thy journey make,
Of earthly aid bereft,
Which way, immortal spirit, wilt thou take,
The right hand or the left?

Ah, 'tis impossible, I know,
Future and past to sever;
Whate'er was found at death thy course below,
The same is thine for ever.