Now hollow fires burn out to black,And lights are fluttering low:Square your shoulders, lift your packAnd leave your friends and go.O never fear, lads, naught’s to dread,Look not left nor right: In all the endless road you treadThere’s nothing but the night.

With Rue My Heart Is LadenWith rue my heart is ladenFor golden friends I had,For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose,But young men think it is, and we were young.

You smile upon your friend to-day,To-day his ills are over;You hearken to the lover's say,And happy is the lover.'Tis late to hearken, late to smile, But better late than never:I shall have lived a little whileBefore I die for ever.

Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest?'Tis that every mother's sonTravails with a skeleton.Lie down in the bed of dust;Bear the fruit that bear you must;Bring the eternal seed to light,And morn is all the same as night.

Right you guessed the rising morrowAnd scorned to tread the mire you must:Dust's your wages, son of sorrow,But men may come to worse than dust. Souls undone, undoing others,-Long time since the tale began.You would not live to wrong your brothers:Oh lad, you died as fits a man.

Smart lad, to slip betimes awayFrom fields where glory does not stayAnd early though the laurel growsIt withers quicker than the rose.