Open your heart and take us in, Love-love and me.
Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.
In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.
Life is, I think, a blunder and a shame.
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies.
Into the winter's gray delight, Into the summer's golden dream, Holy and high and impartial, Death, the mother of Life, Mingles all men for ever.