The busy trade of life is over now, <br />The intricate toil which was so hard for bread, <br />The strife each day renewed 'neath this poor brow <br />By this frail hand to be interpreted, <br />The zeal, the forethought, the heart's wounds that bled, <br />The anger roused, the stark blow answering blow, <br />All that was centred in that aching head <br />Of black necessity for weal or woe. <br />--Its use, its purpose what? Nay, less than none, <br />More blindly naught than even the dull clay <br />Left on this bed, its corporal union done, <br />Which we must shovel to its grave to--day. <br />O soul of Man, thou pilgrim of distress <br />Lost in Time's void! Thou wind of nothingness!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-dead-journalist/
