The Whistle Maker and Other Poems/My Epitaph

by William Nauns Ricks

My Epitaph
(A remembrance at Christmas.)

 

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Build not for me a funeral pyre
Of sacred, ancient wood.
To such acclaim, who can aspire?
The Master said "none good";
And I, as shadow on the wall,
Here for a moment thrust,
Of God an atom, yet how small,
How quickly turned to dust.

Let not the world in solemn state
This fallen form survey,
For death but opens wide the gate
And shows the perfect way;
But I, unworthy, there shall be,
Nor dare my name to own,
So much of time misspent by me;
So great the work not done.

Let children sing at evening's close,
A requiem low and sweet,
As tribute from each friend, a rose,
No greater boon is mete;
But passing say one prayer for me
That laid beneath the sod.
As I served men, so let it be,
I may receive from God.

December, 1912.