A XANADU POEM
Your Book of Life now lies in dust.
Who will read your book now?
The wine and roses, pride and lust
Of your past life now flow
Away, like a dream. Moth and rust
Make dust; out of the dust, new flowers grow.
Sigh no more, sad soul, cry no more
For the things badly done;
For the years spent in this long war,
For battles lost and won.
Listen! there’s a knock on the door!—
Who is it?—Can this be the long lost one?