| Three old hermits took the air |
| By a cold and desolate sea, |
| First was muttering a prayer, |
| Second rummaged
for a flea; |
| On a windy stone, the third, |
| Giddy with his hundredth year, |
| Sang unnoticed like a bird: |
| ‘Though
the Door of Death is near |
| And what waits behind the door, |
| Three times in a single day |
| I, though upright
on the shore, |
| Fall asleep when I should pray.’ |
| So the first, but now the second: |
| ‘We’re but given what
we have earned |
| When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned, |
| So it’s plain to be discerned |
| That the shades
of holy men |
| Who have failed, being weak of will, |
| Pass the Door of Birth again, |
| And are plagued by crowds,
until |
| They’ve the passion to escape.’ |
| Moaned the other, ‘They are thrown |
| Into some most fearful shape.’ |
| But the second mocked his moan: |
| ‘They are not changed to anything, |
| Having loved God once, but maybe |
| To a poet or a king |
| Or a witty lovely lady.’ |
| While he’d rummaged rags and hair, |
| Caught and cracked his
flea, the third, |
| Giddy with his hundredth year, |
| Sang unnoticed like a bird. |
