1. At length the busy day is done, And
2. Oh, God of hosts, with this day's close, How
yon bright orb, the glorious sun, Deep
many sleep in death's repose? And
in the west reclines his head, Where
with the sinking sun's decline, To
misty curtains shroud his bed.
thee their fleeting souls resign.

3. Hark! 'Tis the tolling bell I hear,
And slow and dull it strikes mine ear;
E'en whilst I tune my pensive song,
The solemn funeral moves along.

4. He whom this night th' expecting tomb,
Shall wrap within the dreary gloom,

At last withdraw your cruelty,
Or let me die at once.
It is too much extremity,
Devised for the nonce,
To hold me thus alive,
In pain still for to drive.
What may I more sustain,
Alas, that die would fain,
And cannot die for pain?

For to the flame wherewith ye burn,
My thought and my desire,
When into ashes it should turn
My heart by fervent fire,
Ye send a stormy rain
That doth it quench again,
And make mine eyes express
The tears that do redress
My life in wretchedness.

Then when these should have drown'd

At last to be identified!
At last, the lamps upon thy side,
The rest of life to see!
Past midnight, past the morning star!
Past sunrise! Ah! what leagues there are
Between our feet and day!

At last the cure, I bid farewell to pain,
and welcome with a smile the days to come.
Oblivion comes to me a kingly guest,
with hands compassionate and blessed steps.
My guest comes strongly on,
folding the distances, the dark unknown.
Proffering a cup that takes away
old pain, and banishes all regrets.
So drain it to the dregs and have no fear —
For long you've suffered, your thirst your only drink.
Oblivion now envelops me, and I
thank God for its overwhelming flood,
Surrendering to the waves which engulf me,

At last, O thou serene retreat
From all my wanderings! Thou balm desired
So long, that bringst me healing sweet
From wounds naught else can heal! Inspired
Seclusion, gracious welcome for the tired!

At last, thou little thatch of straw
Beneath whose eaves no lurking Care hath stayed,
Where none within a comrade's glances saw
The gleam of Envy e'er displayed —
Nor voice was perjured, not a plot betrayed!

Fair upland, sloping to the skies
With peace beyond the thought of earth endowed —
Beyond where in death's grapple vies

At last I put off love,
For twice ten years
The daysman of my thought,
And hope, and doing;
Being ashamed thereof,
And faint of fears
And desolations, wrought
In his pursuing,

Since first in youthtime those
Disquietings
That heart-enslavement brings
To hale and hoary,
Became my housefellows,
And, fool and blind,
I turned from kith and kind

At last I have a Sabine farm
Abloom with shrubs and flowers;
And garlands gay I weave by day
Amid those fragrant bowers;
And yet, O fortune hideous,
I have no blooming Lydias;
And what, ah, what 's a Sabine farm to us without its Lydias?

Within my cottage is a room
Where I would fain be merry;
Come one and all unto that hall,
Where you 'll be welcome, very!
I 've a butler who 's Hibernian —
But no, I 've no Falernian!
And what, ah, what 's a Sabine farm to you without Falernian?

Upon this cosey Sabine farm

At last I can figure out the nature of that whisking sound which I hear whenever I leave the room
It is not really the sound of wind through television aerials, safety screens, and the holes in old socks and underwear dangling on clotheslines
But Fate, rubbing its hands.
Whisk whisk it must certainly be wearing gloves
Whisk whisk or else it has fingerprints ridged and immortal as corduroy
And nevertheless, despite the threat
Here I am proceeding as if it were normal

At Lai Family Village, the spring is beautiful:
the sun setting over a deserted hill,
mist rising against a clear sky.
Willow branches, so gentle, their green still young;
flower buds everywhere, red and elegant.
On paths through the fields—dishes of offerings
for the festival;
beyond a low wall—children playing on swings.
This place, where I rode my bamboo horse happily
as a child,
I pass again, hair turned white, lost in thought.

At home alone, O Nomades,
Although Maecenas' marble frieze
Stand not between you and the sky,
Nor Persian luxury supply
Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.

Tempt not the far AEgean breeze;
With home-made wine and books that please,
To duns and bores the door deny
At home, alone.

Strange joys may lure. Your deities
Smile here alone. Oh, give me these:
Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,
And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,
My Lydia's graceful draperies,
At home, alone.