Somewhere there is a spot of ground,
   Covered with grass, or snow, may be,
That one day will be spaded 'round
   And dug up to make room for me.

And I unconsciously have trod,
   Perhaps, and so again may tread
Upon the very voiceless sod,
   That will be roof above my head.

Somewhere upon the earth to-day
   Are dwelling men, who yet shall spade
And cut and dig the earth away,
   Until my narrow house is made.

Perchance they have clasped hands with me;
   Those hands, that, after I am dead,
Shall measure me so reverently,
   To find how long to make my bed.

How strangely, solemn thoughts like these
   Will come, when life seems blithe and gay;
Like voices of the passing breeze,
   Saying "All things must pass away--"

Shells by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milwaukee: Hauser & Storey, 1873.

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