Our Mother feedeth thus our little life, That we may in turn feed her with our death
For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day.
The world rolls round for ever like a mill; It grinds out death and life and good and ill; It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish, That one best sleep which never wakes again.
Give a man a girl he can love, As I, O my love, love thee; And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, At home, on land, on sea.
The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air.
The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell.
Give a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail; And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, On sea nor shore shall fail.
The wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long: Sits long and rises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.
The mighty river flowing dark and deep, With ebb and flood from the remote sea-tides, Vague-sounding through the City's sleepless sleep, Is named the River of the Suicides.
The street-lamps burn amidst the baleful glooms, Amidst the soundless solitudes immense Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs.