Between the two immensities, under this infinite arch,
Death seems only a deeper note in the eternal song.
The death of Man not more than the death of this
Little horned-toad whose dry husk I toss
With my foot.
Here lie empty shells of cows,
Withered in the sun;
Skulls and ribs of horses;
A pile of stones above the grave of a man.
To Man, dead bones are sacred,
Though not the living flesh.
Even the toiler, dead, is respected for a moment.
But he is not respected living
Though life is material of great value.

I have stood by the death-bed of mothers.
I have watched the mysterious veil
Fall over the face of a child.
I have seen strong men shot in battle
And in the brawl of mining-camps,
In gambling-rooms and on the street;
Brave men and cowards;
Yet never have I seen the dumb Sculptor
Fail to mould dignity and confer a peace
Of the same passionless bigness as the stars.

I have stood with soldiers,
Face to face with the unseen Captain,
And have wrapped the dead in their blankets
For their long slumber.
The Dawn was our celebrant;
The larks our choir,
And the mists of Morning, the incense.
Simply, as the fall of a tree,
These returned to the Mother.
The wild men of the wilderness
Take Death by the hand,
As they take Life by the hand;
Without mouthing, or vain conceit.
They chant their sorrow a little while,
Drumming upon the hollow-sounding parchment;
Then they pile stones above the sleeper,
And pass into the secret places of the Desert.
Can we not, also, partake of Death's dignity
And let our husks fall in primal simplicity?
What of fire, firstling of Creation?
Type of the soul;
The great purifier;
Not devouring, but transmuting.
So that with remembering hands, we may scatter
The loved ashes upon a spot of our communion,
Giving them to the swift-running heralds of the air.