Ye are fraters in your hall, Gay and chainless, great and small; All are toilers in the field, All are sharers in the yield. But we mortals plot and plan How to grind the fellow-man; Glad to find him in a pit, If we get some gain of it. So with us, the sons of Time, Labor is a kind of crime, For the toilers have the least, While the idlers lord the feast. Yes, our workers they are bound, Pallid captives to the ground; Jeered by traitors, fooled by knaves, Till they stumble into graves. How appears to tiny eyes All this wisdom of the wise? Wail of the Wandering Dead Death, too, is a chimera and betrays, And yet they promised we should enter rest; Death is as empty as the cup of days, And bitter milk is in her wintry breast. There is no worth in any world to come, Nor any in the world we left behind; And what remains of all our masterdom?-- Only a cry out of the crumbling mind. We played all comers at the old Gray Inn, But played the King of Players to our cost. We played Him fair and had no chance to win: The dice of God were loaded and we lost. We wander, wander, and the nights come down With starless darkness and the rush of rains; We drift as phantoms by the songless town, We drift as litter on the windy lanes. Hope is the fading vision of the heart, A mocking spirit throwing up wild hands. She led us on with music at the start, To leave us at dead fountains in the sands. Now all our days are but a cry for sleep, For we are weary of the petty strife. Is there not somewhere in the endless deep A place where we can lose the feel of life? Where we can be as senseless as the dust The night wind blows about a dried-up well? Where there is no more labor, no more lust, Nor any flesh to feel the Tooth of Hell? Our feet are ever sliding, and we seem As old and weary as the pyramids. Come, God of Ages, and dispel the dream, Fold the worn hands and close the sinking lids. There is no new road for the dead to take: Wild hearts are we among the worlds astray-- Wild hearts are we that cannot wholly break, But linger on though life has gone away. We are the sons of Misery and Eld: Come, tender Death, with all your hushing wings, And let our broken spirits be dispelled-- Let dead men sink into the dusk of things. A Prayer Teach me, Father, how to go Softly as the grasses grow; Hush my soul to meet the shock Of the wild world as a rock; But my spirit, propt with power, Make as simple as a flower. Let the dry heart fill its cup, Like a poppy looking up; Let life lightly wear her crown, Like a poppy looking down, When its heart is filled with dew, And its life begins anew.