| I estimate their works and them
|
| So rightly, that at times I almost dream
|
| I too have spent a life the sages' way
|
| And tread once more familiar paths
|
| Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance
|
| Ages ago
|
| And in that act, a prayer for one more chance
|
| went up so earnest, so…
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| Take my hand, follow me
|
| To the place where I lie
|
| You will see, you will hear
|
| The last one man’s cry
|
| In other life
|
| I was here standing by
|
| As were you wonder why
|
| Come to field where I died
|
| Instinct with better light led in by death,
|
| That life was blotted out-not so completely
|
| But scattered wrecks enough of it remain
|
| Dim memories, the goal in sight again
|
| All which, indeed is foolish, and only means
|
| The flesh I wear, the earth I tread are not more clear to me
|
| Than my belief
|
| Explained to you or no
|
| Grab my hand, follow me
|
| To the place where I lie
|
| You will see, you will hear
|
| The last one man’s cry
|
| In other life
|
| I was here standing by
|
| As were you wonder why
|
| Come to field where I died
|
| Now follow me
|
| To the place where I lie
|
| You will see, you will hear
|
| The last one man’s cry
|
| In other life
|
| I was here standing by
|
| Once again we will come
|
| To the field where I died |