A Wind-Call

DUST thou art, and unto dust,
Playfellow, return thou must;
Lingering death it is to stay
In the prison-house of clay —
Bricks of Egypt year by year
Walling up a sepulchre.

Better far the soul to free
From its close captivity,
And with us, thy comrades, go
Wheresoe’er we list to blow.
Come! for soon again to dust,
Playfellow, return thou must.