Venite Descendamus
Let be at last; give over words and sighing,
Vainly were all things said:
Better at last to find a place for lying,
Only dead.
Silence were best, with songs and sighing over;
Now be the music mute;
Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn cover
A vain lute.
Silence is best: for ever and for ever,
We will go down and sleep,
Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need never
Come to weep.
Let be at last: colder she grows and colder;
Sleep and the night were best;
Lying at last where we cannot behold her,
We may rest.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Added by Poetry Lover
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