Across the walnuts and the wine.

I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

A still small voice spake unto me, “Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?”

She said, “I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!”

There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. 1