DUST TO DUST

Heavenly Archer, bend thy bow;

Now the flame of life burns low,

Youth is gone; I, too, would go.

Even Fortune leads to this:

Harsh or kind, at last she is

Murderess of all ecstasies.

Yet the spirit, dark, alone,

Bound in sense, still hearkens on

For tidings of a bliss foregone.

Sleep is well for dreamless head,

At no breath astonishèd,

From the Gardens of the Dead.

I the immortal harps hear ring,

By Babylon's river languishing.

Heavenly Archer, loose thy string.