Venite Descendamus

Let be at last; give over words and sighing,
    Vainly were all things said:
  Better at last to find a place for lying,
    Only dead.

Silence were best, with songs and sighing over;
    Now be the music mute;
  Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn cover
    A vain lute.

Silence is best: for ever and for ever,
    We will go down and sleep,
  Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need never
    Come to weep.

Let be at last: colder she grows and colder;
    Sleep and the night were best;
  Lying at last where we cannot behold her,
    We may rest.