The Star-Treader and Other Poems

Turn round, O Life, and know with eyes aghast

The breast that fed thee—Death, disguiseless, stern;

Even now, within thy mouth, from tomb and urn,

The dust is sweet. All nurture that thou hast

Was once as thou, and fed with lips made fast

On Death, whose sateless mouth it fed in turn.

Kingdoms debased, and thrones that starward yearn,

All are but ghouls that batten on the past.

Monstrous and dread, must it fore'er abide,

This unescapable alternity?

Must loveliness find root within decay,

And night devour its flaming hues alway?

Sickening, will Life not turn eventually,

Or ravenous Death at last be satisfied?