The cold bog-water clucks
At every step across
The black and quaking hags
Of Dead Man's Moss—

And what's the hurry, squire,
To reach the house you hate?
Where there's no welcome none
Can come too late.

Why should you labour now
To lift another foot
When peace lies all about
The rushes' root?

Your empty house but holds
The dead dream of a fool:
But the end of all things waits
In any pool—

In any still black pool
Oblivion dark and deep
Awaits the heart that would
Forget in sleep.