And when all's said and done and said
again, what is there but sadness;
what's left but blanket for ones bed,
and dreams to escape ones madness?

And when all's sung and roared and sung
again, what remains but malice;
what's kept in the tide of ones lung,
or mind's empty kingdom palace?

Here a rose; here a tread on tomb.
Here a bird; here a bright whisper.
Here a book; here more stream than glass.

Here a heart; here the night sisters.
Here a hand; here the flight of youth.
Here a skull; here no pain to pass.