Classic Poem

I lay upon my knees the Funeral Box
Wherein a god lies dead as glittering stone.
His pulse is still—here lies his golden bone,
Dust unto dust!—but yet he breaks the locks.
His living speech is mute as filigree.
Weighted with silver now his clappered tongue
From which the sweetest strains of music sprung
And shaped the world with music wild and free.
In twisted wire wreaths his curling hair.
Swathed in stiff metal his helpless body lies,
When suddenly the Splendor is not there.
He casts the golden coins from his eyes
And fills with colors all the April air.
‘Ye shall be lifted up if I arise.’