Here lies the flesh that tried
To follow the spirit's leading;
Fallen at last, it died,
Broken, bruised, and bleeding,
Burned by the high fires
Of the spirit's desires.

It had no dream to sing
Of ultimate liberty;
Fashioned for suffering,
To endure transiently,
And conscious that it must
Return as dust to dust.

It blossomed a brief hour,
Was rosy, warm and strong;
It went like a wilted flower,
It ended like a song;
Someone closed a door—
And it was seen no more.

The grass is very kind;
(It knows so many dead!)
Those whom it covers find
Their wild hearts comforted;
Their pulses need not meet
The spirit's speed and heat.

Here lies the flesh that held
The spirit prisoner—
A caged thing that rebelled,
Forced to subminister;
Broken it had to be
To set its captive free.

It is very glad to rest,
It calls to roots and rain,
Safe in its mother's breast,
Ready to bloom again.
After a day and an hour
'Twill greet the sun a flower.