Mine Host
There stands a hostel by a travelled way;Life is the road and Death the worthy host;Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,“How have ye fared?” They answer him, the most,“This lodging place is other than we sought;We had intended farther, but the gloomCame on apace, and found us ere we thought:Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room.”
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;No voice of fellowship or strife is heardBut silence of a multitude of dead.“Naught can I offer ye,” quoth Death, “but rest!”And to his chamber leads each tired guest.