by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Somewhere there is a spot of ground,
Covered with grass, or snow, may-be,
That one day will be spaded 'round
And dug up to make room for me.
And I unconsciously have trod,
Perhaps, and so again may tread
Upon the very voiceless sod,
That will be roof above my head.
Somewhere upon the earth to-day
Are dwelling men, who yet shall spade
And cut and dig the earth away,
Until my narrow house is made.
Perchance they have clasped hands with me;
Those hands that, after I am dead,
Shall measure me so reverently,
To find how long to make my bed.
How strangely, solemn thoughts like these
Will come, when life seems blithe and gay;
Like voices of the passing breeze,
All things must pass away.
Hauser & Storey, Milwaukee