| Hateful is the dark-blue sky, | |
| Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. | |
| Death is the end of life; ah, why | |
| Should life all labor be? | |
| Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, | |
| And in a little while our lips are dumb. | |
| Let us alone. What is it that will last? | |
| All things are taken from us, and become | |
| Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. | |
| Let us alone. What pleasure can we have | |
| To war with evil? Is there any peace | |
| In ever climbing up the climbing wave? | |
| All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave | |
| In silence—ripen, fall, and cease: | |
| Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. |
(Tennyson)