Dark shadow

Birds have no consciousness of doom:

Yon thrush that serenades me daily

From scented snow of hawthorn bloom

Would not trill out his glee so gaily,

Could he foretell his songful breath

Would sadly soon be stilled in death.

Yon lambs that frolic on the lea

And incarnate the joy of life,

Would scarce disport them could they see

The shadow of the butcher's knife:

Oh Nature, with your loving ruth,

You spare them knowledge of Dark Truth.

To sad humanity alone,

(Creation's triumph ultimate)

The grimness of the grave is known,

The dusty destiny await . . . .

Oh bird and beast, with joy, elance

Effulgently your ingorance!

Oh man, previsioning the hearse,

With fortitude accept your curse!