At The Tomb Of Rameses

by Patience Worth

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