 | The Way of the Winepress |  |
THE RESTLESS DEAD.
THE air about me, where my life is led,Here in these brumous steppes of stone and brick,
Heavy with mournful memories and thick
Is with the windy presence of the dead.
The ways nocturnal feet of shadow tread,
A million-fold more numerous than the quick,
And echoes of extinguished voices prick
The silence in the darkness overhead.
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Sad souls, Life's hollowness who've proved and won
The right to rest eternal, that ye strive
For vain rememorance from Death's shadow-deep,
Where peace perpetual is, and with the live
Their puppet-world dispute of moon and sun?
| The Way of the Winepress | |