style="font-size:15px;"> To think that we are now here and bear our part.
Not a day passes . . not a minute or second without an accouchement;
Not a day passes . . not a minute or second without a corpse.
When the dull nights are over, and the dull days also,
When the soreness of lying so much in bed is over,
When the physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look for an answer,
When the children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters have been sent for,
When medicines stand unused on the shelf, and the camphor-smell has pervaded the rooms,
When the faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying,
When the twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,
When the breath ceases and the pulse of the heart ceases,
Then the corpse-limbs stretch on the bed, and the living look upon them,
They are palpable as the living are palpable.
The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,
But without eyesight lingers a different living and looks curiously on the corpse.
To think that the rivers will come to flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen . . and act upon others as upon us now . . . . yet not act upon us;
To think of all these wonders of city and country . . and others taking great interest in them . . and we taking small interest in them.
To think how eager we are in building our houses,
To think others shall be just as eager . . and we quite indifferent.
I see one building the house that serves him a few years . . . . or seventy or eighty years at most;
I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.
Slowmoving and black lines creep over the whole earth . . . . they never cease . . . . they are the burial lines,
He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried.
Cold dash of waves at the ferrywharf,
Posh and ice in the river . . . . half-frozen mud in the streets,
A gray discouraged sky overhead . . . . the short last daylight of December,
A hearse and stages . . . . other vehicles give place,
The funeral of an old stagedriver . . . . the cortege mostly drivers.
Rapid the trot to the cemetery,
Duly rattles the deathbell . . . . the gate is passed . . . . the grave is halted at . . . . the living alight . . . . the hearse uncloses,
The coffin is lowered and settled . . . . the whip is laid on the coffin,
The earth is swiftly shovelled in . . . . a minute . . no one moves or speaks . . . . it is done,
He is decently put away . . . . is there anything more?
He was a goodfellow,
Freemouthed, quicktempered, not badlooking, able to take his own part,
Witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend,
Fond of women, . . played some . . eat hearty and drank hearty,
Had known what it was to be flush . . grew lowspirited toward the last . . sickened . . was helped by a contribution,
Died aged forty-one years . . and that was his funeral.
Thumb extended or finger uplifted,
Apron, cape, gloves, strap . . . . wetweather clothes . . . . whip carefully chosen . . . . boss, spotter, starter, and hostler,
Somebody loafing on you, or you loafing on somebody . . . . headway . . . . man before and man behind,
Good day’s work or bad day’s work . . . . pet stock or mean stock . . . . first out or last out . . . . turning in at night,
To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers . . and he there takes no interest in them.
The markets, the government, the workingman’s wages . . . . to think what account they are through our nights and days;
To think that other workingmen will make just as great account of them . . yet we make little or no account.
The vulgar and the refined . . . . what you call sin and what you call goodness . . to think how wide a difference;
To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference.
To think how much pleasure there is!
Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? Have you pleasure from poems?
Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a nomination and election? or with your wife and family?
Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful maternal cares?
These also flow onward to others . . . . you and I flow onward;
But in due time you and I shall take less interest in them.
Your farm and profits and crops . . . . to think how engrossed you are;
To think there will still be farms and profits and crops . . yet for you of what avail?
What will be will be well -- for what is is well,
To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well.
The sky continues beautiful . . . . the pleasure of men with women shall never be sated . . nor the pleasure of women with men . . nor the pleasure from poems;
The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses -- they are not phantasms . . they have weight and form and location;
The farms and profits and crops . . the markets and wages and government . . they also are not phantasms;
The difference between sin and goodness is no apparition;
The earth is not an echo . . . . man and his life and all the things of his life are well-considered.
You are not thrown to the winds . . you gather certainly and safely around yourself,
Yourself! Yourself! Yourself forever and ever!
It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father -- it is to identify you,
It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should
