[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]
[Only A Box.]
Only a box, secure and strong,
Rough, and wooden, and six feet long,
Lying here in the drizzling rain,
Waiting to take the up-bound train.
Only its owner, just inside,
Cold, and livid, and glassy-eyed;
Little to him if the train be late!
Nothing has he to do but wait.
Only an open grave, somewhere,
Heady to close when he gets there;
Turfs and grasses and flowerets sweet,
Ready to press him 'neath their feet.
Only a band of friends at home,
Waiting to see the traveller come;
Naught he will tell of distant lands;
He cannot even press their hands.
He has no stories weird and bright,
He has no gifts for a child's delight;
He did not come with anything;
He had not even himself to bring.
Yet they will softly him await,
And he will move about in state;
They will give him, when he appears,
Love, and pity, and tender tears.
Only a box, secure and strong,
Rough and wooden, and six feet long;
Angels guide that soulless breast
Into a long and peaceful rest!