XLVII

Original Text: 

George Henry Boker, The Book of the Dead. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1882): 104-05. Internet Archive

1Standing upon this grave, I view
2    The world with my anointed eyes.
3They pass along, a motley crew,
4    The people, with their works and cries.
5Through many a mazy path they run, --
6    They join, they cross, they part, they meet;
7But all their ways converge to one,
8    That ends beneath my very feet.
9The weariest straggler here shall rest,
10    The fiercest cry here gasp for breath;
11The bondman with his lord may jest
12    In this old commonwealth of death.
13So high my dizzy stand is fixed,
14    I cannot judge men's deeds aright;
15They seem in vain confusion mixed,
16    Mere motion, indistinct to sight.
17For if yon emmet hoards or upends,
18    Or this one means to buy or sell,
19Or what that other's act intends,
20    Is more than I can truly tell.
21Or if that be a sad parade
22    Of mourners following the dead,
23Or warriors, armed with spear and blade. --
24    Yon pygmies winding down a thread.
25But this I know: a million strands,
26    Converging to this central place,
27Some spider wove, and all the bands
28    Climb here, with pallor in the face.
29Each by his separate thread ascends,
30    As partial fortune may allot;
31But each, with empty bands, here ends.
32    And in his season is forgot.
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