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Mayst tell them, though they leave a sacred land,
Where every inch with rich conception spanned,
With diligence, in Hades mayst they find
A path that to Elysian Fields doth wind.

So many burdens, all the Earth now mars;
So many pleasures, circumstance doth slay;
Enough, I say, of all of this, be done.
For what becomes of all your struggles here,
But you are mirth and baubles others steer?

Through bordereau our fortunes flow:
They write it so, and so we go.

For every joy, comes sorrow knocking twice.
And so it were, when all the world were nice.
Yet now our once warm waters creak with ice.
And all of purloined purpose, high and low.
Like Anna, whose fine shop you all do know,
Who sells her summer dresses in the snow.
Of little measure is poor Man who plods
Within the wake of vast intrigues of gods!
And little care they, in immortal stunts,
That you shall be the prey that Fortune hunts,
That rats shall feed on what was human once.
I do not favor winter cold and bare,
Nor countenance its white, unholy stare!
The Earth we love should not our sorrows share.
Yet, I do think it well and truly said,
That when it’s cold, it’s best to go to bed.
For strident Earth, warm Hades take instead.
Some few I’ll take across the waves to where
No thought of Earth need trouble any there.
Forgotten how all fortune rose and fell,
In Hades hearth, the Plains of Asphodel.
Forgotten Earth, where sorrows never cease,
And in forgetting, find forever peace.

Why have the gods contained us in this land,
If Hades, all the while, lay close at hand?

And why should ceaseless sorrow be our lot?
And why remain upon this worthless plot?

Listen to this grief I tell,
How love away from me didst wind.
And though in time, I think she’ll find
I loved her better – never mind –
The whole of life, its parts combined,
Are only sorrows intertwined. 
But on the Plains, the Plains of Asphodel,
Shall it all at last be well!

The whole of life, ‘tis nothing deep,
‘Tis fodder for the compost heap.
Life laughs at us, I laugh at it,
We last through lethargy and wit.
Yet this my rule, ignore the rest:
‘Tis he who dies the first, dies best.

Yet who can bear that death should come about?
For death is pain, and all beyond a doubt.

Yet here I offer Hades whilst still stout!
In Asphodel shall draw untroubled breath,
Without the sharp and scary prick of death.
And though the world a widdy ‘bout your neck,
Yet here a ship of fine and gleaming deck.
Suspended in the light through darkened clouds,
This tiny craft of wood and shimmering shrouds,
That swiftly shall to Hades carry crowds.
O, well I know how water wets your fear!
Poseidon’s realm, so foreign, so severe.
It heaving, uncharted, all a skidding,
So boundless, repugnant and forbidding.
And yet Poseidon came last night to me.
Surcingled he in melody,
He rose from out the sea.
And as he loves you, shall your guardian be.

Untended lie the acres of my heart,
Where once a field of roses bowed and swayed.
And gladly from all sorrows shall I part!
Nor by a dismal voyage, be dismayed.

And if to know the way, follow then the sun;
My good friend Apollo shall show you the way;
And when the sun shall set, follow then the stars!

I shall not keep thee further from thy booze.
Thou wakened well, and now resume thy snooze.

And yet I think I’ll book thy little cruise.

The God of Wine thinks war a drunken game?

Thou mayst forget: I wear another name.
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