Classic Poem

HIS dust looks up to the changing sky
Through daisies' eyes;
And when a swallow flies
Only so high
He hears her going by
As daisies do. He does not die
In this brown earth where he was glad enough to lie.

But looking up from that other bed,
" There is something more my own " , he said,
" Than hands or feet or this restless head
That must be buried when I am dead.
The Trumpet may wake every other sleeper.
Do dreams lie deeper — ?
And what sunrise
When these are shut shall open their little eyes?
They are my children, they have very lovely faces —
And how does one bury the breathless dreams?
They are not of the earth and not of the sea,
They have no friends here but the flakes of the falling snow;
You and I will go down two paces —
Where do they go? "