Somewhere

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, Saying "All things must pass away-"