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Each monstrous birth
Cumbers old earth,
But acts a voiceless part,
Resolving all to mine own doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.
Tradition with her palsied hand,
And purblind History, may
Grope and guess well that in this land
Some great one lived his day;
And what is this,
Blind hit or miss,
But labour thrown away,
For counterparts to mine own doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb?
I do not peak and pine away,
Lo! this deep bowl I quaff;
If sigh I do, you still must say
It sounds more like a laugh.
'Tis not too late
To separate
The good seed from the chaff;
And scoff at those who scorn my doom,
The darkness of a Nameless Tomb.
