Wail of the Wandering Dead
Come, God of Ages, and dispel the dream,
Fold the worn hands and close the sinking lids.
There is no new road for the dead to take:
Wild hearts are we among the worlds astray—
Wild hearts are we that cannot wholly break,
But linger on though life has gone away.
We are the sons of Misery and Eld:
Come, tender Death, with all your hushing wings,
And let our broken spirits be dispelled—
Let dead men sink into the dusk of things.
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