Lo, all the world as some vast corpse long dead, Fadeth and perisheth and doth decay, Even as a corpse, in whose unhonor’d clay The worms have long the inmost secrets read;
Even as a corpse, upon whose lowly head The sun beats, and the holy rain doth play; Even as a corpse, whereof the people say, —We would that these dead bones were buried.
Even so: and in the earth’s vast sepulchre Our fainting souls their doubtful footsteps bear, Dreaming of that which no dead men may see;
And in our passage to the second death, We whisper strange names with our pesty breath, Of Love, and Honour, and great Victory.