A Cry in the Night

Wail, wail, wail,
For the fleering world goes down:
Into the song of the poet pale
Mixes the laugh of the clown.

Grim, grim, grim,
Is the road we go to the dead;
Yet we must on, for a Something dim
Pushes the soul ahead.

Where, where, where,
Through the dust and shadow of things
Will the fleeing Fates with their wild manes bear
These tribes of slaves and kings?