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THE CITY OF THE LIVING.
Craving, with wish that brooked no more denying,
So long had it been crossed,
The blessed possibility of dying,—
The treasure they had lost.
So long had it been crossed,
The blessed possibility of dying,—
The treasure they had lost.
Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals
Swelled to a broader tide,
Till none were left within the city's portals,
And graves grew green outside.
Swelled to a broader tide,
Till none were left within the city's portals,
And graves grew green outside.
Would it be worth the having or the giving,
The boon of endless breath?
Ah, for the weariness that comes of living
There is no cure but death!
The boon of endless breath?
Ah, for the weariness that comes of living
There is no cure but death!
Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity,
Were that sweet rest denied;
And few, methinks, would care to find the city
Where never any died!
Were that sweet rest denied;
And few, methinks, would care to find the city
Where never any died!
