Wail of the Wandering Dead Death, too, is a chimera and betrays, And yet they promised we should enter rest; Death is as empty as the cup of days, There is no worth in any world to come, Nor any in the world we left behind; And what remains of all our masterdom ?— Only a cry out of the crumbling mind. We played all comers at the old Gray Inn, But played the King of Players to our cost. We played Him fair and had no chance to win : The dice of God were loaded and we lost. Wail of the Wandering Dead We wander, wander, and the nights come down With starless darkness and the rush of rains; We drift as phantoms by the songless town, We drift as litter on the windy lanes. 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, 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? Wail of the Wandering Dead Our feet are ever sliding, and we seem Come, God of Ages, and dispel the dream, lids. There is no new road for the dead to take: Wild hearts are we among the worlds astray Wild 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 dispelledLet dead men sink into the dusk of things. Teach me, Father, how to go Let life lightly wear her crown, Like a poppy looking down, When its heart is filled with dew, And its life begins anew. Teach me, Father, how to be |