Chapter XII

And what avails it then that Man be born To joy or sorrow?--why rejoice or mourn? The doling doves are calling to the rose; The dying rose is bleeding o'er the thorn.

XIII

And he the Messenger, who takes away The faded garments, purple, white, and gray Of all our dreams unto the Dyer, will Bring back new robes to-morrow--so they say.

XIV

But now the funeral is passing by, And in its trail, beneath this moaning sky, The howdaj comes,--both vanish into night; To me are one, the sob, the joyous cry.