Chorus.

  Who hath given man speech? or who hath set therein
  A thorn for peril and a snare for sin? 
  For in the word his life is and his breath,
    And in the word his death,
  That madness and the infatuate heart may breed
    From the word’s womb the deed
  And life bring one thing forth ere all pass by,
  Even one thing which is ours yet cannot die—­
  Death.  Hast thou seen him ever anywhere,
  Time’s twin-born brother, imperishable as he
  Is perishable and plaintive, clothed with care
    And mutable as sand,
  But death is strong and full of blood and fair
  And perdurable and like a lord of land? 
  Nay, time thou seest not, death thou wilt not see
  Till life’s right hand be loosened from thine hand
    And thy life-days from thee. 
  For the gods very subtly fashion
    Madness with sadness upon earth: 
  Not knowing in any wise compassion,
    Nor holding pity of any worth;
  And many things they have given and taken,
    And wrought and ruined many things;
  The firm land have they loosed and shaken,
    And sealed the sea with all her springs;
  They have wearied time with heavy burdens
    And vexed the lips of life with breath: 
  Set men to labour and given them guerdons,
    Death, and great darkness after death: 
  Put moans into the bridal measure
    And on the bridal wools a stain,
  And circled pain about with pleasure,
    And girdled pleasure about with pain;
  And strewed one marriage-bed with tears and fire
  For extreme loathing and supreme desire.

  What shall be done with all these tears of ours? 
    Shall they make watersprings in the fair heaven
  To bathe the brows of morning? or like flowers
  Be shed and shine before the starriest hours,
    Or made the raiment of the weeping Seven? 
  Or rather, O our masters, shall they be
  Food for the famine of the grievous sea,
    A great well-head of lamentation
  Satiating the sad gods? or fall and flow
  Among the years and seasons to and fro,
    And wash their feet with tribulation
  And fill them full with grieving ere they go? 
    Alas, our lords, and yet alas again,
  Seeing all your iron heaven is gilt as gold
    But all we smite thereat in vain,
  Smite the gates barred with groanings manifold,
    But all the floors are paven with our pain. 
  Yea, and with weariness of lips and eyes,
  With breaking of the bosom, and with sighs,
    We labour, and are clad and fed with grief
  And filled with days we would not fain behold
  And nights we would not hear of, we wax old,
    All we wax old and wither like a leaf. 
  We are outcast, strayed between bright sun and moon;
    Our light and darkness are as leaves of flowers,
  Black flowers and white, that perish; and the noon—­
    As midnight, and the night as daylight hours. 
    A little fruit a little while is ours,
      And the worm finds it soon.