They leave us with the Infinite.
But He — is not a man —
His fingers are the size of fists —
His fists, the size of men —
And whom he foundeth, with his Arm
As Himmaleh, shall stand —
Gibraltar’s Everlasting Shoe
Poised lightly on his Hand,
So trust him, Comrade —
You for you, and I, for you and me
Eternity is ample,
And quick enough, if true.
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A little bread — a crust — a crumb —
A little trust — a demijohn —
Can keep the soul alive —
Not portly, mind! but breathing — warm —
Conscious — as old Napoleon,
The night before the Crown!
A modest lot — A fame petite —
A brief Campaign of sting and sweet
Is plenty! Is enough!
A Sailor’s business is the shore!
A Soldier’s — balls! Who asketh more,
Must seek the neighboring life!
She laid her docile crescent down,
And this mechanic stone
Still states, to dates that have forgot,
The news that she is gone.
So constant to its stolid trust,
The shaft that never knew,
It shames the constancy that fled
Before its emblem flew.