Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded.
Imparadis'd in one another's arms.
Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.
I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of death.
Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk.