So envelope, man great life spoke as yore,
Nor are shaken - be still! an hour is near,
Awaken! here look: the old shades gone. Nor
Are gold, millions, health and people here,
This room laden white with bitter white,
How soon the tears would show more light,
Than ceiling closed, and floor in marbled sight,
On whose footsteps brought then are yours so light!
All one could hear: nought. All I am, all else.
I am the poet that speaks riddle from myth,
Nor the gay mute bespoke, nor thought more; lest
Neither no needless pain shall conjure wreath,
Till trembling shook even Richter not scale,
Nor are your carnal stocks be furnished here,
And of what eyes foretold my judgement bail,
Till scorn alone is all devils ought to fear,
When hue brought is you brought with hundred spears,
Did not then think hapsad upon seeing Him
That you yourself then were your past gone fears?