Only a box, secure and strong...

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!