Debris eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 71 pages of information about Debris.

And hate! ah, we buried it deeper
  Than all the rest of the train;
But one word through memory flashing,
  And its ghost comes back again.

There are phantoms of sunshiny hours
  That fled when the summer time fled,
And specters that mock while they haunt us,
  Long buried, but never dead.

And ever and ever an hour
  Will come that the heart-wraiths control,
Till down from Eternity’s tower
  A banshee shall ring for the soul.


Only a tramp by the roadside dead,
  Only a tramp—­who cares? 
His feet are bare, his dull eyes stare,
  And the wind plays freaks with his unkempt hair. 
The sun rose up and the sun went down,
  But nobody missed him from the town
Where he begged for bread ’till the day he was dead. 
  He’s only a tramp—­who cares? 
Only a tramp, a nuisance gone. 
  One more tramp less—­who cares?

  Ghastly and gray, in the lane all day,
A soiled, dead heap of human clay. 
  Would the wasted crumbs in the rich man’s hall,
Where the gas-lights gleam and the curtains fall,
  Have given him a longer lease of breath—­
Have saved the wretch from starving to death? 
  He’s only a tramp—­who cares?

Only a tramp! was he ever more
  Than a beggar tramp?  Who cares? 
Was the hard-lined face ever dimpled and sweet? 
  Has a mother kissed those rough brown feet,
And thought their tramping a sweeter strain
  Than ever will waken his ear again? 
Does somebody kneel ’way over the sea,
  Praying “Father, bring back my boy to me?”
Does somebody watch and weep and pray
  For the tramp who lies dead in the lane to-day? 
        He’s only a tramp—­who cares?

* * * * *


When dead, no imposing funeral rite,
  Nor line of praise I crave;
But drop your tears upon my face—­
  Put flowers on my grave.

Close not in narrow wall the place
  In which my heart finds rest,
Nor mark with tow’ring monument
  The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab
  A burning thought or deed,
Or word of love, or praise, or blame,
  For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts,
  A tender mem’ry save;
Upon my dead face drop your tears—­
  Put flowers on my grave.


Why into that darkened chamber
  Walk you with such noiseless tread? 
No slumbering one will awaken—­
  The sheeted form is dead.

Why gaze on the rigid features,
  So white in death’s embrace,
With such look of awe and pity? 
  ’Tis only the same old face.

Why touch you now so tender
  The hands that silent lay? 
They’re only the sunburned fingers
  That toiled for you night and day.

Project Gutenberg
Debris from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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