Of greybeards drinking at the trellised doors,
Of immortelles on graves,
Of red-cheeked lasses where the ripe corn waves.
This world hath been so fair,
So full of joyousness! Then what am I
That I should thankless spurn God's blessëd air
And shut my lids against the sunshine sky?
But that is idle breath,
Life may be quiet, even if life in death.
Dying as echo dies,