Knowing the weariness of dreams, and days, and nights,

The great and grievous vanity of joy and pain;

Frail loves that pass, where languors infinite remain;

Fervours, and long despairs, and desperate, brief delights;

Knowing how in the witless brains of them that were,

The drowsy, wiving worm hath prospered and hath died;

Knowing that, evermore, by moon and sun abide

The standing glooms made stagnant in the sepulchre;

Knowing the vacillant leaves that tremble, flame, and fall,

The sweetly wasting rose, the dawns and stars that wane—

Knowing these things, the desolate heart and soul are fain

Of the one perfect sleep which filleth, foldeth all.