Generic

His dust looks up to the changing sky 
through daisies eyes; 
and when a swallow flies 
only so high 
he hears her going by 
as daisies do.he does not die. 
In this brown earth where he was good enough to lie. 
But looking up from that other bed, 
"there is something more my own" he said, 
"than hands or feet or this restless head 
that must be buried when i am dead. 
The trumpet may wake every other sleeper. 
Do dreams lie deeper? 
and what sunrise 
when these are shut shall open 
their little eyes? 
They are my children,they have very lovely faces,- 
and how does one bury the breathless dreams? 
They are not of the earth and not of the sea, 
They have no friends here but the flakes of 
the falling snow,you and i will go down two paces, 
where did they go?