I OFTEN wonder how this globe will struggle on when I cash in, when I
put on my long white robe and sleep with cold but peaceful grin. I find
it hard to realize that sun and moon and stars will shine, that clouds
will drift along the skies, when everlasting sleep is mine. What is the
use of keeping up the long procession of the spheres, when I’m beneath
the butter-cup, with gumbo in my eyes and ears? What is the use of dusk
or dawn, of starless dark or glaring light, when I from all these scenes
am gone, down to a million years of night? Young men will vow the same
sweet vows, and maids with beating hearts will hear, beneath the
churchyard maple’s boughs, and reck not that I’m resting near. And to
the altar, up the aisle, the blooming brides of June will go, and bells
will ring and damsels smile, and I’ll be too blamed dead to know. Ah,
well, I’ve had my share of fun, I’ve lived and loved and shut the door;
and when this little journey’s done, I’ll go to rest without a roar.
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