When night does grasp The aging wire That chained, urge, to hold on longer From dawn, no more, that bleak horizon That brings good news, and ill, to our step and obligation to your door The servitude of all alike, rich and poor. That holds fast all longing, all doubt with the very god's ardor And brights to few, but brings nothing sure save end to all things and surety itself the promise of nothing more. Kings! Kings! I implore who weary down eager to their rest bed From the cold strife of life's ceaseless war And hurry oft, unwitting, to their end, at deaths very door.