You ask what - I have found, and far and wide I go, Nothing
but Cromwell’s house and Cromwell’s murderous crew, The
lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And
the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they? And
there is an old beggar wandering in his pride His
fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified. O what of that, O what of that, What is there left to say? All
neighbourly content and easy talk are gone, But
there’s no good complaining, for money’s rant is on. He
that’s mounting up must on his neighbour mount, And
we and all the Muses are things of no account. They
have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by, What
can they know that we know that know the time to die? O what of that, O what of that, What is there left to say? But
there’s another knowledge that my heart destroys, As
the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy’s Because
it proves that things both can and cannot be; That
the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company, Can
pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound, That
I am still their servant though all are underground. O what of that, O what of that, What is there left to say? I
came on a great house in the middle of the night, Its
open lighted doorway and its windows all alight, And
all my friends were there and made me welcome too; But
I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through; And
when I pay attention I must out and walk Among
the dogs and horses that understand my talk. O what of that, O what of that, What is there left to say? |
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