AT THE END by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)

WHEN the five gateways of the soul
Are closing one by one,
When our being's currents slowly roll
And day is done,
What shall our chiefest comfort be
Amid this misery?

Not to have stores heaped up on high
Of gold and precious things,
Not to have flown from sky to sky
On Fame's wide wings, --
These things a little space do last,
And then are overpast.

Nor to have worked with patient brain
In senate or in mart,
To have gained the meed which those attain
Who have played their part, --
Effort is fair, success is sweet,
But leave life incomplete.

Nor to have said, as the fool says,
"Be merry, soul, rejoice;
"Thou hast laid up store for many days."
Oh, foolish voice!
Already at thy gate the feet
Of the corpse-bearers meet.

Nor to have heaped up precious store
Of all the gains of time,
Of long-dead sages' treasured lore,
Or deathless rhyme, --
Though Learning be a comely maid,
Death maketh her afraid.

Nor to have drained the cup of youth,
To the sweet maddening lees;
Nor, rapt by dreams of Hidden Truth,
To have spurned all these; --
Pleasure, Denial, touch not him
Whose body and mind are dim.

Not one of all these things shall I
For comfort use, or strength,
When the sure hour, when I must die,
Takes me at length;
One thought alone shall bring redress
For that great heaviness: --

That I have held each struggling soul
As of one kin and blood,
That one sure link doth all control
To one close brotherhood;
For who the race of men doth love,
Loves also Him above.

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