Joy Steals Upon Me, Such Joy As

For Mortal Kind Taketh Thought Only For The Day, And Hath No More Surety Than The Shadow Of Smoke.

I, Schooled In Misery, Know Many Purifying Rites, And I Know Where Speech Is Proper And Where Silence.

But I Will Place This Carefully Fed Pig Within The Crackling Oven; And, I Pray, What Nicer Dish Can E'er Be Given To Man.

They Sent Forth Men To Battle, But No Such Men Return; And Home, To Claim Their Welcome, Come Ashes In An Urn

When A Tongue Fails To Send Forth Appropriate Shafts, There Might Be A Word To Act As Healer Of These.