VENITE DESCENDAMUS

Let be at last; give over words and sighing, Vainly were all things said: Better at last to find a place for lying, Only dead.

Silence were best, with songs and sighing over; Now be the music mute; Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn cover A vain lute.

Silence is best: for ever and for ever, We will go down and sleep, Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need never Come to weep.

Let be at last: colder she grows and colder; Sleep and the night were best; Lying at last where we cannot behold her, We may rest.