Dust To Dust
By Walter De La Mare
Heavenly Archer, bend thy bow;
Now the flame of life burns low,
Youth is gone; I, too, would go.
Even Fortune leads to this:
Harsh or kind, at last she is
Murderess of all ecstasies.
Yet the spirit, dark, alone,
Bound in sense, still hearkens on
For tidings of a bliss foregone.
Sleep is well for dreamless head,
At no breath astonishd,
From the Gardens of the Dead.
I the immortal harps hear ring,
By Babylon's river languishing.
Heavenly Archer, loose thy string.