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 Haply on strange roads I shall be, the moorland's peace around me; Or counting up a fortune to which Destiny hath bound me; Or—Vanity of Vanities—the honey of the Fair; Or a greybeard, lost to memory, on the cobbles in my chair— How shall I know that the end of things is coming?

The drummers will be drumming; the fiddlers at their thrumming; Nuns at their beads; the mummers at their mumming; Heaven's solemn Seraph stoopt weary o'er his summing; The palsied fingers plucking, the way-worn feet numbling— And the end of things coming.