I am tired of tears and laughter,/ And men that laugh and weep;/ Of what may come hereafter/ For men that sow and reap.

Before the beginning of years/ There came to the making of man/ Time with a gift of tears,/ Grief with a glass that ran.

I will go back to the great sweet mother,/ Mother and lover of men, the sea.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

I am sick of the solace of sorrow, And fear what the prophets foretold; I am tired of the tears of tomorrow, And wish that things were as of old; I have felt of the force of the fetters, I have drunk of the draught that embitters, And all is not gold

This I ever held worse that all certitude, To know not what the worst ahead might be.