In the Groves of Death

In the evening of a grey day, a bleak day
 I strayed into the dim silence of the hallowed trees
 Where the fir-trees whisper of those been, those gone
 Where the sacred earth still hides all those we once loved 

O father, hear these words, your son is not made for this world
 Faint-hearted and careworn, into this vile life I was hurled
 In the woods the fiends sigh, I swear I heard the demons neigh
 On the seashore I espy the dreadful void under the tides 

Ill-assorted with this life, these cares
 Each moment I am waiting for the worst to come my way
 Dark berry from my mother's womb; a frail one
 I was affrighted at my birth, bewildered from the start 

Better it would be to stay in the shades
 In the thicket of the dead, in the groves of death
 Here I would lie to the end of the days 

Hear me now, my hapless son
 Warn away all yours fears
 Make good use of your brief days
 Life may be grim but death is more austere
 By yourself you sit and wait
 By yourself you will have time to repent 

In these lowly halls
 No moon will beam, no sun will shine
 In these narrow rooms
 No tears are seen, no laughter heard 

At the dawn of a quiet day
 I strolled from the woods, returned to the hearth
 And with a restful mind I roamed
 The dreary shores, the darkling wilds
 Greeting all the days that befall
 Taking life as it comes