What great, sensuous temptations arise
Like toadstools, feeding upon corruption,
Hollow from the sorrows that dare not cry
In white-hot, salty tears of destruction,
Flooding the way through sad vales to the sea
Where our cloudy, dismal skies still despise
This weakness that lies at the heart of me.
What if at the End awaits no prize?
Never, Never! Such thoughts can have no place
Where the life of the mind still holds its sway,
Where all our energies direct to face
With everlasting virtue the darkest days
And, though the End may seem bitter indeed,
We from that bitterness at last are freed.