White Field of Stone

Under the. grass these helpless thin. dead lie,

Their brief one chance upon a-sun-warmed sphere

Ended; nor will their hour reappear ;

The mornings and the evenings pass them by;

They are gone; they have met the bitter need to die.

But I am alive- alive! Bones, do you hear?

This is my day; this is my close-held year;

I still possess the sun; I still am I.

Poor bones, forgive the vaunting flag of breath.

This cruel shout of joy, while you lie dumb,,

Is but a wilful strife to overcome

The tears. Take them, pale brothers, for a sign

Of pity, but ask not that I die your death -

Today the earth and the red sun are mine.