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to our cost.

       ​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.

       ​Come, God of Ages, and dispel the dream,

      Fold the worn hands and close the sinking lids.

       There is no new road for the dead to take:

      Wild hearts are we among the worlds astray—

       Wild hearts are we that cannot wholly break,

      But linger on though life has gone away.

       We are the sons of Misery and Eld:

      Come, tender Death, with all your hushing wings,

       And let our broken spirits be dispelled—

      Let dead men sink into the dusk of things.

      ​

A Prayer

       Table of Contents

      Teach me, Father, how to go

       Softly as the grasses grow;

       Hush my soul to meet the shock

       Of the wild world as a rock;

       But my spirit, propt with power,

       Make as simple as a flower.

       Let the dry heart fill its cup,

       Like a poppy looking up;

       Let life lightly wear her crown,

       Like a poppy looking down,

       When its heart is filled with dew,

       And its life begins anew.

      ​Teach me, Father, how to be

       Kind and patient as a tree.

       Joyfully the crickets croon

       Under shady oak at noon;

       Beetle, on his mission bent,

       Tarries in that cooling tent.

       Let me, also, cheer a spot,

       Hidden field or garden grot—

       Place where passing souls can rest

       On the way and be their best.

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