Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:
Do as you like, as now you do;
If work’s a cheat, so’s pleasure too.
And nothing’s new and nothing’s true;
Dong, there is no God; dong.
O, in our nook unknown, unseen,
We’ll hold our fancy like a screen
Us and the dreadful fact between;
And it shall yet be long—ay, long—
The quiet notes of our low song