When I am dead
By Hugh Barrie (MA 1925)
When I am dead
And this strange spark of life that in me lies
Is fled to join the great white core of life
That surely flames beyond eternities,
And all I ever thought of as myself
Is mouldering to dust and cold dead ash,
This pride of nerve and muscle – merest dross,
This joy of brain and eye and touch but trash.
Bury me not, I pray thee,
In the dark earth, where comes not any ray
Of light or warmth or aught that made life dear;
But take my whitened bones far, far away
Out of the hum and turmoil of the town.
Find me a windswept boulder for a bier
And on it lay me down,
Where far beneath drops sheer the rocky ridge
Down to the gloomy valley and the streams
Fall foaming white against black, beetling rocks:
Where the sun’s kindly radiance seldom gleams:
Where some tall peak, defiant, steadfast, rocks
The passing gods: and all the ways of men
Forgotten.
So may I know
Even in that death that comes to everything
The swiftly silent swish of hurrying snow:
The lash of rain: the savage bellowing
Of stags: the bitter keen-knife-edge embrace
Of the rushing wind: and still the tremulous dawn
Will touch the eyeless sockets of my face:
And I shall see the sunset and anon
Shall know the velvet kindness of the night
And see the stars.