The Resurrection

LONG, long before men die I sometimes read
  Their stoic backs as plain as graveyard stones,
  An epitaph of poor dead men indeed.
  I never pass those old and crooked bones,
  Ridden far down with burden and with age,
  Stopping the headlong highway till they lean
  Aside in honor of my equipage,
  But I am sick and shamed that Heaven has been
  So clumsy with the inelastic clay!
  "What pretty piece of hope then have you spun,
  My old defeated traveler," I say,
  "That keeps you marching on? For I have none.
  I have looked often and I have not found
  Old men bowed low who ever rose up sound."