The last great Day it may be near, <br />Or Man may pass ere it comes here. <br />There may be nothing but weeds and flowers <br />Over the Earth in her dying hours; <br />Men, beasts and birds may all be gone <br />Ere the world's disaster shall come on; <br />Or there may be neither grass nor trees, <br />But stony wastes round the ashen seas — <br />No life to take when the days are dead, <br />And God is doing the thing He said; <br />Nothing but Desolation's wing <br />Like a sunless mist o'er everything! <br />And all the millions long, long gone, <br />To ashes turned in Oblivion; <br />And the last great Day shall but consume <br />The bones of a world in its fiery tomb, <br />As God puts by for ever and aye <br />The thought of the sorrow that's passed away!<br /><br />Robert Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dies-irae-3/
