256 ARBOR DAY 



And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of 



mouths for nothing. 

 I wish I could translate the hints about the dead 



young men and women, 

 And the hints about old men and mothers, and the 



offspring taken soon out of their laps. 

 What do you think has become of the young and old 



men? 

 And what do you think has become of the women 



and children? 

 They are alive and well somewhere, the smallest 



sprout shows there is really no death, 

 And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not 



wait at the end to arrest it, 

 And ceased the moment life appeared. 

 All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, 

 And to die is different from what any one supposed, 



and luckier. 



I know I am deathless, 



I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a 



carpenter's compass, 

 I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with 



a burnt stick at night. 



One world is away and by far the largest to me, and 



that is myself, 

 And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten 



thousand or ten million years, 



