This is the final poem in a series of six.
Read the first poem here, the second here,
the third here,  the fourth here, and the fifth here.

VI.
Play.

From you den of double-dealing,
With its Devil’s host,
Come I, maddened out of healing:
All is lost!

So the false wine cannot blind me,
Nor the braggart toast;
But I know that Hell doth bind me;
All is lost!

Where the lavish gain attracts us,
And the easy cost,
While the damning dicer backs us,
All is lost!

Blest the rustic in his furrows,
Toil- and sweat-embossed;
Blest are honest souls in sorrows.
All is lost!

Wifely love, the closer clinging
When men need thee most,
Shall I come, dishonor bringing?
All is lost!

Babe in silken cradle lying,
To low music tossed,
Will they wake thee for my dying?
All is lost!

Yonder where the river grimly
Whitens, like a ghost,
Must I plunge and perish dimly:
All is lost!

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