Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad For Him

After All, What Is Every Man? A Horde Of Ghosts - Like A Chinese Nest Of Boxes - Oaks That Were Acorns That Were Oaks. Death Lies Behind Us, Not In Front - In Our Ancestors, Back And Back Until.

His Are The Quiet Steeps Of Dreamland, The Waters Of No-more-pain; His Ram's Bell Rings 'neath An Arch Of Stars, "rest, Rest, And Rest Again.

Poor Tired Tim! It's Sad For Him He Lags The Long Bright Morning Through, Ever So Tired Of Nothing To Do.

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.

We Wake And Whisper Awhile, But, The Day Gone By, Silence And Sleep Like Fields Of Amaranth Lie.