Do not walk chastely into that grave hole,

Do not walk chastely into that grave hole,
awed faith should light and roar at end of play;
fume, fume against the hurting of the tree.
Though brave friends at their end know truth is kind,
Because their ideals had launched no truth they
Do not walk chastely into that grave hole,
grave friends, the best ride by, crying how strong
Their clumsy wills might have roared in a fresh heath,
fume, fume against the hurting of the tree.
big friends who pushed and sang the wind in bloom,
And learn, too dear, they lost it on its way,
Do not walk chastely into that grave hole,
mean friends, in fear, who bear with painful touch
broken hearts could grow like ferns and be gay,
fume, fume against the hurting of the tree.
And you, my friend, there on the jealous street,
scold, stroke, me now with your harsh cries, I pray.
Do not walk chastely into that grave hole,
fume, fume against the hurting of the tree.

Crunch!