Classic Poem

Weary of life, and sad at heart,
From the world's highway I roamed apart,
Through wood and wilderness, far away,
Till near the close of the dying day
I came to a shadowy rivers side—
And the wailing water was wild and wide—
Where a black-sailed shallop bore me across
To the Silent City of Thanatos.

And the avenues there were smooth and fair,
With many a wild-flowered plot and square,
But never a mortal footfall beats
Those dim arcades and desolate streets;
But the yews and cypresses moan by night,
And never the day-dawn brings delight,
And the streets untrodden are rank with moss,
In the Silent City of Thanatos.

Oh, a singular city it is to see,
As any that in the world may be!
And a strange community bide there in;
Unvexed by the mad world's fret and din;
For they dream no more, or know, for aye,
The cares that wither, the hopes that die,
Nor touch of sorrow, nor pain of loss,
In the Silent City of Thanatos.

And the houses all are straight and low,
Where shoulder to shoulder sleep friend and foe,
And marvelous sculptures, white as snow,
Gleam in the moonlight, row on row,
And scored in the rock with curious care,
Are the records of those dumb dwellers there,
Inwrought with hieroglyph, scutcheon and boss,
In the Silent City of Thanatos.

And how long so e'er be the world-wide quest,
Here, only, the pilgrim findeth rest;
For here the slumberer wakes no more,
Through earthquake-shock and thunder-roar;
And the rest is sweet for the weary feet,
And over the hearts too tired to beat,
The still, meek hands are clasped across,
In the Silent City of Thanatos.

And the kings of the earth, though never so high,
With the vassal hither shall come and lie;
And the warrior, glutted with half the world,
Here shall find his banners furled,
And his arrogant armies come to halt,
In the silent bivouac of the vault,
And pride and pomp be but as dross,
In the Silent City of Thanatos!