VENITE DESCENDAMUS

Let be at last; give over words and sighing,

Vainly were all things said:

Better at last to find a place for lying,

Only dead.

Silence were best, with songs and sighing over;

Now be the music mute;

Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn cover

A vain lute.

Silence is best: for ever and for ever,

We will go down and sleep,

Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need never

Come to weep.

Let be at last: colder she grows and colder;

Sleep and the night were best;

Lying at last where we cannot behold her,

We may rest.