I had a dream. The habitable earth—
  Its continents and islands, all were bare
  Of cities and of forests. Naught remained
  Of its old aspect, and I only knew
  (As men know things in dreams, unknowing how)
  That this was earth and that all men were dead.
  On every side I saw the barren land,
  Even to the distant sky's inclosing blue,
  Thick-pitted all with graves; and all the graves
  Save one were open—not as newly dug,
  But rather as by some internal force
  Riven for egress. Tombs of stone were split
  And wide agape, and in their iron decay
  The massive mausoleums stood in halves.
  With mildewed linen all the ground was white.
  Discarded shrouds upon memorial stones
  Hung without motion in the soulless air.
  While greatly marveling how this should be
  I heard, or fancied that I heard, a voice,
  Low like an angel's, delicately strong,
  And sweet as music.

                      —"Spirit," it said, "behold
  The burial place of universal Man!
  A million years have rolled away since here
  His sheeted multitudes (save only some
  Whose dark misdeeds required a separate
  And individual arraignment) rose
  To judgment at the trumpet's summoning
  And passed into the sky for their award,
  Leaving behind these perishable things
  Which yet, preserved by miracle, endure
  Till all are up. Then they and all of earth,
  Rock-hearted mountain and storm-breasted sea,
  River and wilderness and sites of dead
  And vanished capitals of men, shall spring
  To flame, and naught shall be for evermore!
  When all are risen that wonder will occur.
  'Twas but ten centuries ago the last
  But one came forth—a soul so black with sin,
  Against whose name so many crimes were set
  That only now his trial is at end.
  But one remains."

  Straight, as the voice was stilled—
  That single rounded mound cracked lengthliwise
  And one came forth in grave-clothes. For a space
  He stood and gazed about him with a smile
  Superior; then laying off his shroud
  Disclosed his two attenuated legs
  Which, like parentheses, bent outwardly
  As by the weight of saintliness above,
  And so sprang upward and was lost to view
  Noting his headstone overthrown, I read:
  "Sacred to memory of George K. Fitch,
  Deacon and Editor—a holy man
  Who fell asleep in Jesus, full of years
  And blessedness. The dead in Christ rise first."