Our world is dusty clay
Trampled upon the way;
I do not think our breath
Returneth out of death.

This night, whose only home
Is in the strangers’ tomb,
No moon, no stars here burn;
To dawn how shall it turn?

The heart, whose whole desire
I quenchless flame and fire,
Who knows, if it shall grow
To lightning flash, or glow?

High fancy, passion’s glance,
And life’s exuberance,
Fear not, for these all three
Dust of the road shall be.

So live, that if our death
For aye continueth,
God shall be shamed, to know
What things He wrought below.