Cease the faint pulsing of the weary brain,
Fold up the remnant of thy wings at last,
And rot, beneath the inexorable chain.
Soon shalt thou be with refuse vile outcast,
Flung down the bottomless abyss that still
Yawns to the future from the darkling past.
Thy hopes are dead, broken thy lofty will,
Thy name and memory will be blotted out
Before the rattling clods thy grave refill.
No marble shaft for thee the heavens will flout,