III.
I take this reed—I know the hand
That wields it must ere long be dust—
And write, upon the fleeting sand
Each wind can shake, the words, "I trust."
And if that sand one day was stone
And stood in courses near the sky,
For towers by earthquake overthrown,
Or mouldering piecemeal, what care I?
Things earthly perish: life to death
And death to life in turn succeeds.
The spirit never perisheth:
The chrysalis its Psyche breeds.
True life alone is that which soars
To Him who triumphed o'er the grave:
With Him, on life's eternal shores,
I trust one day a part to have.
Ah, hark! above the springing corn
That chime; in every breeze it swells!
Ye bells that wake the Ascension morn,
Ye give us back our Paschal bells!