Colin F. Jones


The spirit flies! Or drifts or floats,
From rotting flesh that swells and bloats
Into a realm of tranquil dream,
Where living flesh has never been.
Tis all he is; his thoughts contained,
In a magic image quite unrestrained,
As it glides towards god’s heaven above,
Invisible to hate yet honoured by love.
For there all pain and sorrow is lost,
There is for happiness no price nor cost.
For that which feeds the mouth and brain,
Subserves a glory that knows no shame,
For now in death he lives with God,
He has left his body in the sod.