Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/105

 The gods be gentle to all these. Nay, if death be not, how shall they be? Nay, is there help in heaven? it may be All things and lords of things shall cease.

The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes; The bronzèd brims are deep in ashes; The pale old lips of death are fed. Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter? Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter, At sight of all these poor old dead?

Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it; Thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit, Thy laughter shall not give thee ease; Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying, Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing, Thou shalt not raise up one of these.

Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses, The breathing flame's mouth curls and kisses The small dried rows of frankincense; All round the sad red blossoms smoulder, Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder, In sign of sweet things taken hence;

Yea, for their sake and in death's favour Things of sweet shape and of sweet savour We yield them, spice and flower and wine; Yea, costlier things than wine or spices,