Why woo so long a world that loves thee not?
O soul, whence long have perished hope and faith,
Why cling to life, when death is all thy lot?
Sweeter than bridal bed the couch of death,
More restful far than sleep; the asphodel
Is sweeter than the crimson poppy’s breath.
King, queen, and harlot, priest and infidel,
Heaped up at random peacefully they rest,
Commingling in one mighty urn pell-mell.
Despairing brother, whose fast chilling breast