All is vanity, the preacher said,
so we’ll go no more a-roving, led
by a fragment of truth, when,
to the airy hall, we’re drawn again.
A riddle, on a sketch of light,
a spirit passed before me in the night—
a very mournful, silent glow,
as if my native heart did know—
This soul lay dying, lay low,
Yet will you weep when I go?
For mine is a common lot,
notes of woe we’ve all forgot,
and some elegant verses sent to a friend,
complaining that one’s time must end.
Away, away, from sorrow’s grasp,
bright be the place where spirits clasp.
Childish recollections fade like dew,
a fact literally rendered, true.
Condolence renders the image, clear—
Dear Doctor, I have read your notes and fear—
Defeated yet triumphant, we stand,
dedication etched by the stone carver’s hand.
And though the darkness may seem long,
our souls are bright, where we belong.
WoPoLi 
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