Mine Host
There
stands
a
hostel
by
a
travelled
way;
Life
is
the
road
and
Death
the
worthy
host;
Each
guest
he
greets,
nor
ever
lacks
to
say,
"How
have
ye
fared?"
They
answer
him,
the
most,
"This
lodging
place
is
other
than
we
sought;
We
had
intended
farther,
but
the
gloom
Came
on
apace,
and
found
us
ere
we
thought:
Yet
will
we
lodge.
Thou
hast
abundant
room."
Within
sit
haggard
men
that
speak
no
word,
No
fire
gleams
their
cheerful
welcome
shed;
No
voice
of
fellowship
or
strife
is
heard
But
silence
of
a
multitude
of
dead.
"Naught
can
I
offer
ye,"
quoth
Death,
"but
rest!"
And
to
his
chamber
leads
each
tired
guest.
