There is a land where summer, spring, nor winter, Nor noon, nor night, nor morning’s holy prime, Nor love, nor hate, nor hope can ever enter, A dreamless land, beyond the date of time; A land of eld and age and hoary rime, Of sleep’s long frosts, where sword and armour rust, And shackles fall from hands that turn to dust.
Here all may sleep, for no dread warder’s warning Can come with clang of care and garish day; They sleep the sleep of night that knows no morning, No fierce noon-heats or chill at evening grey; No sound of those who watch or weep or pray May enter here to stir the long, long rest Of those who slumber on oblivion’s breast.
Long weaned of life’s mad throe and time’s weird glory, Stilled hands on breast, sleep closely side by side, The hearts that read and those who told earth’s story, The necks that bent, the brows that rose in pride: But one event for all who here abide, The wise, the fool, the despot and the slave, One common dust in one great common grave.
And he who met so calm thy salutation, When thou didst hail him softly, “Peace, be still!” Forsaking men and toil and adulation, Smoothed his great brow and bowed him to thy will; And went with thee meet lordly place to fill, In the great minster walls where love doth keep The genius of a nation in its sleep.
Forgive these winter songs, O great Life-Master, These halting rhymes, O strong and puissant Death: Our sight is small, but thine is vast and vaster; Thy knowledge lives, ours dwindles with a breath. Forgive these rhymes on him who slumbereth; Who was too great for mine unworthy pen To do him grace, King Singer of singing men.