Hope by John Davison
August death, we
hail
Your kindly power:
We know our flesh
will fail
And Time devour
The house of clay
at last;
Our life is lease
Not freehold, and
must cease;
The die is cast.
Indeed, and from the first
Our
end is sure;
But this
curse, though your worst
Will not
endure.
The
body’s yours to claim;
The
spirit draws
Its
substance from a name
More
real than yours.
We move
through you, we hope,
From
good to better:
You burn
the envelope;
We keep the letter.