I hold that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth;
Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth.
With sturdier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the road again.
Such is my own belief and trust; This hand, this hand that holds the pen,
Has many a hundred times been dust And turned, as dust, to dust again;
These eyes of mine have blinked and shown In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.
All that I rightly think or do, Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,
Is curse or blessing justly due For sloth or effort in the past.
My life's a statement of the sum Of vice indulged, or overcome.
I know that in my lives to be My sorry heart will ache and burn,
And worship, unavailingly, The woman whom I used to spurn,
And shake to see another have The love I spurned, the love she gave.
And I shall know, in angry words, In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,
A carrion flock of homing-birds, The gibes and scorns I uttered here.
The brave word that I failed to speak Will brand me dastard on the cheek.
And as I wander on the roads I shall be helped and healed and blessed;
Dear words shall cheer and be as goads To urge to heights before unguessed.
My road shall be the road I made;
All that I gave shall be repaid.
So shall I fight, so shall I tread, In this long war beneath the stars;
So shall a glory wreathe my head, So shall I faint and show the scars,
Until this case, this clogging mould,
Be smithied all to kingly gold.
