I read a poem the other day
That made me think about the way
People’s souls lie at rest
It considered the lack of heaven and hell
The spirit itself could neither speak nor tell
The ones that it loved best
How sad, I thought when this I read
What if, I mused, when we are dead
We are the sounds themselves
The voices of our souls are not mute
Scarcely a nice idea or true, I refute
That into which the poem delves
The ocean’s roar comes from a girl
Who long ago was known for each curl
Atop her golden head
The body may hide her strength
But then at last and at long length
It can be freed when she is dead