Death, too, is a chimera and betrays, And yet they promised we should enter rest; Death is as empty as the cup of days, And bitter milk is in her wintry breast. There is no worth in any world to come, We played all comers at the old Gray Inn, Wail of the Wandering Dead We played Him fair and had no chance to win: The dice of God were loaded and we lost. We wander, wander, and the nights come down Hope is the fading vision of the heart, To leave us at dead fountains in the sands. Now all our days are but a cry for sleep, For we are weary of the petty strife. Where we can be as senseless as the dust The night wind blows about a dried-up well? Where there is no more labor, no more lust, Nor any flesh to feel the Tooth of Hell? Our feet are ever sliding, and we seem Wail of the Wandering Dead Come, God of Ages, and dispel the dream, There is no new road for the dead to take: Wild hearts are we among the worlds astrayWild hearts are we that cannot wholly break, But linger on though life has gone away. We are the sons of Misery and Eld: Come, tender Death, with all your hushing wings, And let our broken spirits be dispelled- Teach me, Father, how to go Hush my soul to meet the shock Like a poppy looking down, |