When I cast off this clogging mold
And my poor virtues are extolled
I want no graven, granite stone
Recording things I've never done.
No tender verse that's sad and sweet
For idle gossips to repeat
Who saunter by just killing time,
Mumbling over tombstone rhyme.
e'er I've done for weal or woe
As o'er this murky stage I go
Is all recorded up to date
Where time will not obliterate;
Not on some musty granite crypt
But in the daily karmic script,
To be unrolled some future day
When I will pay and pay and pay
For every harsh discordant deed
Committed rashly without need.
We make our little private hells
Right here on earth where mankind dwells —
Whatever kind of seeds we sow
Will find a fertile spot and grow
To bless us or to overwhelm
With trouble in this very realm
When we return some future day
To reap the good we've done — or pay;
Not on some distant star in space
But in this very self-same place.
Seeds always grow where they are sown —
Not in some distant field unknown.
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