Main Johnson
Came mystic music of the air,
Moaning and chanting,
Sighing, singing,
Gloom and melody.
She bowed her head in worship;
And then undid the Box, and took therefrom
A simple Urn.
Slowly, with slowness infinite,
She lifted off the lid, And put her hand within.
Near the top, she felt
A fine, soft dust.
Blackness of agony blotted all her face,
Black, gripping black, the Black of Death!
But then once more she heard
The singing of the winds.
She felt again the rousing flap-flap of her tie.
No more despair!
Exultant triumph now!
Again her hand went down into the Urn;
Her fingers closed upon the dust.
She drew it forth, and, for a moment, held her arm Outstretched.
The music, for an instant, ceased.
The very world-stopped in its course,
And all that is—was still.
Burst forth a glorious symphony,
As thousand times ten thousand
Marched past!
Shouting, she opened wide her hand.
The dust leaped out, and swirled away over the abyss,
Midmost in one vast maelstrom,
Escorted by the eddying winds.
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