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And here beneath it is all as bad,
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so ;
and down and to and fro,
Ever about me the dead men go ;
And then to hear a dead man chatter
Is enough to drive one mad.
Wretchedest age, since Time began,
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read;
It is that which makes us loud in the world of
There is none that does his work, not one;
But the churchmen fain would kill their church,
As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
See, there is one of us sobbing,
No limit to his distress;
And another, a lord of all things, praying
The case of his patient—all for what?
And wheedle a world that loves him not,
For it is but a world of the dead.
Nothing but idiot gabble!
And then not understood,
Has come to pass as foretold;
But babble, merely for babble.
For I never whisper'd a private affair
Within the hearing of cat or mouse,
No, not to myself in the closet alone,
But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the
gray old wolf, for he came not back
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used
He has gather’d the bones for his o'ergrown whelp
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.
Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,
ne the British vermin, the rat;
I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship,
But I know that he lies and listens mute
In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes :
Tell him now: she is standing here at my head;
But is ever the one thing silent here.
Stiller, not fairer than mine.
But I know where a garden grows,
Fairer than aught in the world beside,
All made up of the lily and rose
He laid a cruel snare in a pit
Yet now I could even weep to think of it;
For what will the old man say
When he comes to the second corpse in the pit?
Friend, to be struck by the public foe,