Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
The DeadMathilde Blind (18411896)
T
Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still:
They have forged our chains of being for good or ill
And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.
Our perishable bodies are the mould
In which their strong imperishable will—
Mortality’s deep yearning to fulfil—
Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.
As a star’s travelling light survives its star!
So may we hold our lives, that when we are
The fate of those who then will draw this breath,
They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar
And curse the heritage which we bequeath.