For a Skeptic

Blood-brother unto Thomas whose

Weak faith doubt kept in trammels,

His little credence strained at gnats—

But grew robust on camels.

For a Fatalist

Life ushers some as heirs-elect

To weather wind and gale;

Here lies a man whose ships were wrecked

Ere he could hoist a sail.

Ours is the ancient story:

Delicate flowers of sin,

Lilies, arrayed in glory,

That would not toil nor spin.

To men no more than so much cover

For them to doff or try,

I found in Death a constant lover:

Here in his arms I lie.