As the seven seas should heed a pebble cast.
O threats of hell and hopes of paradise!
One thing at least is certain -- This life flies.
One thing is certain and the rest is lies.
The flower that once has blown forever dies.
Thomas Gray oozes sentiment in his poem “Elegy Written in A Country Churchyard”. The sturdy and strong elders of the village have left to sleep in their narrow graves. The busy housewives shall no more wait for their return home nor their children run to welcome them with kisses . When the last breath is snuffed out nothing can bring it back again, no flattery, nothing. One is reduced to silent dust.
The living provide frail monuments to the dead as if to make them immortal. They engrave words of love on the tomb stones quoting uncouth rhymes and verses from the scriptures.They are resting in the bosom of their God, their Father! Such hopes do the rustics of the villages have of their dead.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree’s shade
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ever gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour
The path of glory lead but to the grave.
Yet even bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
No further seek his merit to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dreaded abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose, )
the bosom of his Father and his God.
Bangalore: 20 April, 2005 C.D.Norman
93) Women Are Different