Page:The Man with the Hoe, Markham, 1900.djvu/39

Rh We played Him fair and had no chance to win:

The dice of God were loaded and we lost.

We wander, wander, and the nights come down

With starless darkness and the rush of rains;

We drift as phantoms by the songless town,

We drift as litter on the windy lanes.

Hope is the fading vision of the heart,

A mocking spirit throwing up wild hands.

She led us on with music at the start,

To leave us at dead fountains in the sands.

Now all our days are but a cry for sleep,

For we are weary of the petty strife.

Is there not somewhere in the endless deep

A place where we can lose the feel of life?

Where we can be as senseless as the dust

The night wind blows about a dried-up well?

Where there is no more labor, no more lust,

Nor any flesh to feel the Tooth of Hell?

Our feet are ever sliding, and we seem

As old and weary as the pyramids. 11