This page needs to be proofread.
A WHISPER FROM THE GRAVE.
My life points with a radiant hand,
Along a golden ray of sun
That lights some distant promised land,
A fair way for my feet to run:
My Death stands heavily in gloom,
And digs a soft bed in the tomb
Where I may sleep when all is done.
The flowers take hold upon my feet;
Fair fingers beckon me along;
I find Life's promises so sweet
Each thought within me turns to song:
But Death stands digging for me—lest
Some day I need a little rest,
And come to think the way too long.
