Poetry Archives

There stands a hostel by a travelled way;
 Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
 “How have ye fared?”  They answer him, the most,
“This lodging place is other than we sought;
 We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
 Yet will we lodge.  Thou hast abundant room.”

Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
 No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
 But silence of a multitude of dead.
“Naught can I offer ye,” quoth Death, “but rest!”
And to his chamber leads each tired guest.