The sky is lead, and our faces are red,
And the Gates of Hell are opened and riven,
And the winds of Hell are loosened and driven,
And the dust flies up in the face of Heaven,
And the clouds come down in a fiery sheet,
Heavy to raise and hard to be borne.
And the soul of man is turned from his meat,
Turned from the trifles for which he has striven,
Sick in his body and heavy-hearted,
And his soul flies up like the dust in the street—
Breaks from his flesh and is gone and departed
Like the blasts that they blow on the cholera-horn.