Written by
Carl Sandburg |
A MAN saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones.
The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces.
Nothing counts.
Everything is a fake.
Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence.
So he saw it all.
Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert.
Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums.
Music washed something or other
inside him.
Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart.
He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle.
When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way.
He
was the same man in the same world as before.
Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.
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Written by
Dejan Stojanovic |
Dust to dust,
Ashes to ashes.
Is that all?
|
Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust,
What of his loving, what of his lust?
What of his passion, what of his pain?
What of his poverty, what of his pride?
Earth, the great mother, has called him again:
Deeply he sleeps, the world's verdict defied.
Shall he be tried again? Shall he go free?
Who shall the court convene? Where shall it be?
No answer on the land, none from the sea.
Only we know that as he did, we must:
You with your theories, you with your trust,—
Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust!
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Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,
Playing alone in the creek-bed dry,
In the small green flat on every side
Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high;
Tell me the tale of your lonely life
'Mid the great grey forests that know no change.
"I never have left my home," she said,
"I have never been over the Moonbi Range.
"Father and mother are long since dead,
And I live with granny in yon wee place.
"
"Where are your father and mother?" I said.
She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face,
Then a light came into the shy brown face,
And she smiled, for she thought the question strange
On a thing so certain -- "When people die
They go to the country over the range.
"
"And what is this country like, my lass?"
"There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers
And shining creeks where the golden grass
Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers.
They never need work, nor want, nor weep;
No troubles can come their hearts to estrange.
Some summer night I shall fall asleep,
And wake in the country over the range.
"
Child, you are wise in your simple trust,
For the wisest man knows no more than you.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust:
Our views by a range are bounded too;
But we know that God hath this gift in store,
That, when we come to the final change,
We shall meet with our loved ones gone before
To the beautiful country over the range.
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