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26.

This Life is full of numbness and of balk, Of haltingness and baffled short-coming, Of promise unfulfilled, of everything That is puffed vanity and empty talk: Its very bud hangs cankered on the stalk, Its very song-bird trails a broken wing, Its very Spring is not indeed like Spring, But sighs like Autumn round an aimless walk. This Life we live is dead for all its breath; Death's self it is, set off on pilgrimage, Travelling with tottering steps the first short stage: The second stage is one mere desert dust Where Death sits veiled amid creation's rust:-- Unveil thy face, O Death who art not Death.