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.