There stands a hostel by a travelled way; <br /> Life is the road and Death the worthy host; <br />Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say, <br /> "How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most, <br />"This lodging place is other than we sought; <br /> We had intended farther, but the gloom <br />Came on apace, and found us ere we thought: <br /> Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room." <br /> <br />Within sit haggard men that speak no word, <br /> No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed; <br />No voice of fellowship or strife is heard <br /> But silence of a multitude of dead. <br />"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!" <br />And to his chamber leads each tired guest.<br /><br />John McCrae<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mine-host/
