'My door stands always open-
You weary souls, come in!
For you that tire of music,
Here silence doth begin.
You shall not rise for dancing,
Or follow wandering loves.
Here in my yew-boughs whispers
Only the voice of doves.
'I 'll quench your thirst with water,
Well-water, clear and sweet;
I 'll bind about with linen
Your weary hands and feet.
Lie down upon my couches
That are of marble hewn;
You shall not lift your eyelids
For sun or star or moon.
'The wind, howe'er it whistles,
Shall pierce no sleeper's ear,
The rain, that wails and whimpers
Can never enter here.
You shall not hear men groaning
For things that were divine,
Flung to the outer darkness
Or trampled down of swine.
'Your peace no ghost shall trouble,
And cry of beast or foe
Shall sound with such a silence
As sounds the falling snow.
Darkness shall be your dwelling,
With all your dreams therein.
'Come in,' cries Death, the landlord,
'You 'll find no better inn.'