The Resurrection

LONG, long before men die I sometimes read Their stoic backs as plain as graveyard stones, An epitaph of poor dead men indeed. I never pass those old and crooked bones, Ridden far down with burden and with age, Stopping the headlong highway till they lean Aside in honor of my equipage, But I am sick and shamed that Heaven has been So clumsy with the inelastic clay! 'What pretty piece of hope then have you spun, My old defeated traveler,' I say, 'That keeps you marching on? For I have none. I have looked often and I have not found Old men bowed low who ever rose up sound.'