Lo, all the world as some vast corpse long dead,
Fadeth and perisheth and doth decay,
Even as a corpse, in whose unhonor'd clay
The worms have long the inmost secrets read;
Even as a corpse, upon whose lowly head
The sun beats, and the holy rain doth play;
Even as a corpse, whereof the people say,
—We would that these dead bones were buried.
Even so: and in the earth's vast sepulchre
Our fainting souls their doubtful footsteps bear,
Dreaming of that which no dead men may see;
And in our passage to the second death,
We whisper strange names with our pesty breath,
Of Love, and Honour, and great Victory.