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A Last Word

Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;

The day is overworn, the birds all flown;

And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;

Despair and death; deep darkness o’er the land,

Broods like an owl; we cannot understand

Laughter or tears, for we have only known

Surpassing vanity: vain things alone

Have driven our perverse and aimless band.

Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,

To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust

Find end of labour, where’s rest for the old,

Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.

Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold

Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.


Love’s aftermath! I think the time is now 

That we must gather in, alone, apart 

The saddest crop of all the crops that grow, 

Love’s aftermath. 

Ah, sweet,—sweet yesterday, the tears that start 

Can not put back the dial; this is, I trow, 

Our harvesting! Thy kisses chill my heart, 

Our lips are cold; averted eyes avow 

The twilight of poor love: we can but part, 

Dumbly and sadly, reaping as we sow, 

Love’s aftermath. 

A Song of the Setting Sun

A song of the setting sun!

The sky in the west is red,

And the day is all but done;

While yonder up overhead,

All too soon,

There rises so cold the cynic moon.

A Song of a Winter day!

The wind of the north doth blow,

From a sky that’s chill and gray,

On fields where no crops now grow,

Fields long shorn

Of bearded barley and golden corn.

A song of a faded flower!

‘Twas plucked in the tender bud,

And fair and fresh for an hour,

In a Lady’s hair it stood,

Now, ah! now,

Faded it lies in the dust and low. 

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