O woe, woe,

People are born and die,

We also shall be dead pretty soon

Therefore let us act as if we were

dead already.

The bird sits on the hawthorn tree

But he dies also, presently.

Some lads get hung, and some get shot.

Woeful is this human lot.

Woe! woe, etcetera . . . .

London is a woeful place,

Shropshire is much pleasanter.

Then let us smile a little space

Upon fond nature’s morbid grace.

Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera . . .

 

 

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Ezra Pound

Poems by Ezra Pound