English poem
Ix
by R. D. Blackmore (1825–1900)
Nay, but lately she was yearning To be quit of life's turmoil, In the land of no returning, Where all travel ends, and toil.
What temptations now entice her? What hath made the world seem nicer? Whence the charm, that strives anew To prolong this last adieu?
Ah, her heart can understand it, Though her tongue can ne'er explain: Let yon granite Sphinx demand it-- Riddle, ever solved in vain.