They know no moon, or set or rise Of stars, or anything to light The earth or skies, save her dark eyes, This praying, waking, watching night. They move among the tombs apart, Their eyes turn ever to that door; They know the worn walks there by heart-- They turn and walk them o'er and o'er. They are not wide, these little walks For dead folk by this crescent town. They lie right close when they lie down, As if they kept up quiet talks. VI. The two men keep their paths apart; But more and more begins to stoop The man with gold, as droop and droop Tall plants with something at their heart. Now once again with eager zest He offers gold with silent speech; The other will not walk in reach, But walks around, as round a pest. His dark eyes sweep the scene around, His young face drinks the fragrant air, His dark eyes journey everywhere,-- The other's cleave unto the ground. It is a weary walk for him, For oh he bears a weary load! He does not like that narrow road Between the dead--it is so dim: It is so dark, that narrow place, Where graves lie thick, like yellow leaves: Give us the light of Christ and grace, Give light to garner in the sheaves. Give light of love; for gold is cold, And gold is cruel as a crime; It gives no light at such sad time As when man's feet wax weak and old. Ay, gold is heavy, hard, and cold! And have I said this thing before? Well, I will tell it o'er and o'er, 'Twere need be told ten thousand fold. "Give us this day our daily bread,"-- Get this of God, then all the rest Is housed in thine own honest breast, If you but lift a lordly head. VII. Oh, I have seen men, tall and fair, Stoop down their manhood with disgust, Stoop down God's image to the dust, To get a load of gold to bear; Have seen men selling day by day The glance of manhood that God gave: To sell God's image as a slave Might sell some little pot of clay! Behold! here in this green graveyard A man with gold enough to fill A coffin, as a miller's till; And yet his path is hard, so hard! His feet keep sinking in the sand, And now so near an opened grave! He seems to hear the solemn wave Of dread oblivion at hand. The sands, they grumble so, it seems As if he walks some shelving brink. He tries to stop, he tries to think, He tries to make believe he dreams: Why, he is free to leave the land, The silver moon is white as dawn; Why, he has gold in either hand, Has silver ways to walk upon. And who should chide, or bid him stay? Or taunt, or threat, or bid him fly? The world's for sale, I hear men say, And yet this man has gold to buy. Buy what? Buy rest? He could not rest! Buy gentle sleep? He could not sleep, Though all these graves were wide and deep As their wide mouths with the request.