Wail of the Wandering Dead
Death, too, is a chimera and betrays,
And yet they promised we should enter rest;
Death is as empty as the cup of days,
And bitter milk is in her wintry breast.
There is no worth in any world to come,
Nor any in the world we left behind;
And what remains of all our masterdom?—
Only a cry out of the crumbling mind.
We played all comers at the old Gray Inn,
But played the King of Players to our cost.
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