DUST TO DUST
Reading edition
Heavenly Archer, bend thy bow; Now the flame of life burns low, Youth is gone; I, too, would go.
Even Fortune leads to this: Harsh or kind, at last she is Murderess of all ecstasies.
Yet the spirit, dark, alone, Bound in sense, still hearkens on For tidings of a bliss foregone.
Sleep is well for dreamless head, At no breath astonishèd, From the Gardens of the Dead.
I the immortal harps hear ring, By Babylon's river languishing. Heavenly Archer, loose thy string.