If high She raised her voice to scold and chide:
“Begone! bad jester, peak and pule elsewhere!
I will not stand your sickly groanings here.
What if, when, as your head you laid just now
On the pillow, thinking nought else than how
Empty you were, hungering for rich fare,
Death entered, bidding you forthwith prepare
To follow! You may call it hard, unkind
Of the many years which left you behind,
Drift-weed, ashore cast by the downward flow,