What Is The World, O

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely, Every Hour

Oh, Pity The Poor Glutton Whose Troubles All Begin In Struggling On And On To Turn What's Out Into What's In.

His Are The Quiet Steeps Of Dreamland, The Waters Of No-more-pain; His Ram's Bell Rings 'neath An Arch Of Stars, "rest, Rest, And Rest Again.

Oh, No Man Knows Through What Wild Centuries Roves Back The Rose.

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.