The hospital sails on the surge of night,
Rises and settles on the sleepless tide.
Halls and tables play in glimmering light.

All coasts must end, all lives are purified
By dying. Lost are many certainties.
Mistakes and faults could once be rectified,

But now no longer. Vanished urgencies
May not tonight be mended or undone.
My days and idle years are tapestries

Worked in threads of gold, silver and crimson,
Thrown on the floor like leaves in a forest,
Or waving on the walls to meet the sun,

When its first rays reach for the dawning west.
They cannot now be changed. But they comprise—
Forgotten victories, treasons confessed

Or evaded under weak alibis—
Harmonies to the melody of death.
The soul faces its moment to arise

And leave behind the setting suns of earth,
The kindliness and clamour of these grey,
Resounding halls of care. Soul meets the truth

Of its last choice. Tapestries fall away.
The dreaming sky grows light to welcome day.