Do not roll meekly into that grim mist,

Do not roll meekly into that grim mist,
bent strength should light and twist at end of play;
fume, fume against the quiting of the tree.
Though kind gods at their end know peace is true,
Because their gifts had furnished no love they
Do not roll meekly into that grim mist,
grim gods, the best fade by, crying how bright
Their feeble blades might have thrived in a calm dell,
fume, fume against the quiting of the tree.
hard gods who rolled and sang the ark in dreams,
And learn, too fast, they rushed it on its way,
Do not roll meekly into that grim mist,
grim gods, near hate, who feel with blinding sight
failed chance could howl like thunder and be gay,
fume, fume against the quiting of the tree.
And you, my foe, there on the lonely ledge,
sting, hug, me now with your fresh pleas, I pray.
Do not roll meekly into that grim mist,
fume, fume against the quiting of the tree.

Crunch!