by Patience Worth
Behold mould, that substance,
Which is the blossom of time,
That inheritance, that surety,
Which all men become heir unto.
Behold mould, a whit o' dust
Filtering through the centuries,
Yea, becoming a part of the instants.
Yesterday in action, proud, cloaked
In a valor, yea, surged by a mighty wine,
Which giveth rise unto action. Yesterday,
Giving utterance to creation in action.
Yesterday, a part of the grinding universe,
Yesterday in purple. Yesterday casketed
In beauteous substance, and Tomorrow-dust!
Mould! Pregnant mould! tuned with
All emotion since the first day's instants
Writ their scribe upon the page of time.
Quivering with the emotion of ages!-
Dispersed tomorrow; freed to become
A part of the airs. Mayhap-
But dancing motes within a sun's ray.
Yet in some other morrow, eons hence
Assembled, yet enriched
With the inheritance of time-
Sweet with the valors, the loves, the emotions,
The hungers, the convictions-
Requickened unto being.
Yea at some holy morn,
Aside a grey-skirted roadway,
Where the sun scarce lifts his head
From the hill's brow,
A beggar may lean upon a staff,
And his substance be mould of the Kingly One,
Who mutely lies low in his valorous dreams-
While the ages roll.
Last updated January 14, 2019