The Bed

Whether with serge becurtained or brocade,
Sad as a tomb or joyous as a nest,
'Tis there we mate, are born, lie peace-possessed,
Child, spouse, old man, old woman, wife or maid.

In glad or sad, with holy water sprayed
Under black crucifix or branch that's blest,
All there begins, all there meets final rest,
From life's first light to death's eternal shade.

Rude, humble and closed, or proud with canopy
Whose gorgeous colors blaze triumphantly,
Of cypress's, or oak's, or maple's mould,

Blest he who sleeps, his cares all laid aside,
In that paternal, massive bed of old,
Where all his own were born and all have died.