On pity the dead that are dead, but cannot
take
the journey,
still they moan and beat
against the silvery adamant walls of life’s
exclusive city.
Oh pity the dead that were ousted out of
life
all unequipped
to take the long, long voyage.
Gaunt, gaunt they crowd the grey mud-beaches of
shadow
that
intervene between the final sea
and the white shores of
life.
The poor gaunt dead that cannot die
into the distance with receding
oars,
but must roam
like outcast dogs on the margins of life!
Oh think of them, and encourage
them to build
the
bark of their deliverance from the dilemma
of non-existence to far
oblivion.