Lo, for no noise or light of thunder
Shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder;
⁠He that hath taken, shall he give?
He hath rent them: shall he bind together?
He hath bound them: shall he break the tether?
⁠He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?

A little sorrow, a little pleasure,
Fate metes us from the dusty measure
⁠That holds the date of all of us;
We are born with travail and strong crying,
And from the birth-day to the dying
⁠The likeness of our life is thus.

One girds himself to serve another,
Whose father was the dust, whose mother
⁠The little dead red worm therein;
They find no fruit of things they cherish;
The goodness of a man shall perish,
⁠It shall be one thing with his sin.

In deep wet ways by grey old gardens
Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens;
⁠They know not what fruits wane or grow;
Red summer burns to the utmost ember;
They know not, neither can remember,
⁠The old years and flowers they used to know.

Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken,
For theirs, forgotten and forsaken,