A poem, and why not? This one I found in an old newspaper, Free Society. An American paper, published in Chicago, with the sub heading, A Periodical of Anarchist Thought, Work and Literature, Vol.IX, No. 30, dated November 30th, 1902. It states that the author is unknown, so if you think you can throw some light on this, I'd be delighted to hear from you. After all, the poet deserves some recognition.
A
Future Thought.
When
o’er my cold and lifeless clay
The
parting words of love are said,
And
friends and kindred meet to pay
Their
last fond tribute to the dead,
Let
no stern priests with solemn drone
A
formal liturgy intone-----
Whose
creed is foreign to my own.
Let
not a word be whispered there
In
pit for my unbelief,
Or
sorrow that I could not share
The
views that gave their souls relief.
My
faith to me is no less dear,
Nor
less convincing and sincere
Than
theirs, so rigid and austere.
Let
no stale words of Church-born song,
Float
out upon the silent air
To
prove my implication wrong
The
soul of her then lying there----
Why
should such words be glibly sung
O’er
one whose lively tongue
such
empty phrases never hung.
But
rather let the faithful few
Whose
hearts so close were knit to mine
That
they with time the dearer grew,
Assemble
at the day’s decline.
And
while the golden sunbeams fall
In
floods of light upon my pall
Let
them in softened tones recall,
Some
tender memory of the dead----
Some
virtuous act, some word of power
Which
I, perchance, have done or said,
By
loved ones treasured to that hour,
Recount
the deeds which I admired,
The
motives which my soul inspired,
The
hopes by which my heart was fired.
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