who makes and keeps his self-made laws.

All other Life is living Death,
a world where none but Phantoms dwell,
A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice,
a tinkling of the camel-bell.



IX


How then shall man so order life
that when his tale of years is told,
Like sated guest he wend his way;
how shall his even tenour hold?

Despite the Writ that stores the skull;
despite the Table and the Pen;*
Maugre the Fate that plays us down,
her board the world, her pieces men?

* Emblems of Kismet, or Destiny.

How when the light and glow of life
wax dim in thickly gath'ering gloom,
Shall mortal scoff at sting of Death,
shall scorn the victory of the Tomb?

One way, two paths, one end the grave.