Mine Host

There stands a hostel by a travelled way;

Life is the road and Death the worthy host;

Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,

"How have ye fared?"  They answer him, the most,

"This lodging place is other than we sought;

We had intended farther, but the gloom

Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:

Yet will we lodge.  Thou hast abundant room."

Within sit haggard men that speak no word,

No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;

No voice of fellowship or strife is heard

But silence of a multitude of dead.

"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"

And to his chamber leads each tired guest.