Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/102

 In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun, Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and undone. Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal breath; For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death. Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I know I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so. For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep. For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.