Not labour kills us; no, nor joy: The incredulity and frown,The interference and annoy, The small attritions wear us down.
The little gnat-like buzzings shrill, The hurdy-gurdies of the street,The common curses of the will -- These wrap the cerements round our feet.
And more than all, the look askance Of loving souls that cannot gaugeThe numbing touch of circumstance, The heavy toll of heritage.
It is not Death, but Life that slays: The night less mountainously liesUpon our lids, than foolish day's Importunate futilities!
