by Edwin Emerson
Last night within the confines of my room,
Half-lit to shield my over-tired
eyes,
I saw distinctly, to my great surprise,
The outlines of an ancient, lonely tomb;
Moss-covered, framed by weeds — so apt to assume
Rank shapes — which hid in part its
proper size,
While adding to its venerable guise;
And pall-like clouds intensified the gloom.
Alert, I scanned what name and date were there:
And saw mine own, carved on the
crumbling stone;
The date read just five hundred
years ago.
I woke, and thought — This vision would declare
What shall be in the future, when,
alone,
The owl speaks wisdom, and the
night winds blow.
From Edwin Emerson. Poems. 1901. Denver, CO: The Carson-Harper Company.
