CHAPTER 178: Shadows of Death

THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS OF DEATH

by Lewis Carroll

Hark, said the dying man, and sighed,

To that complaining tone —

Like sprite condemned, each eventide,

To walk the world alone.

At sunset, when the air is still,

I hear it creep from yonder hill:

It breathes upon me, dead and chill,

A moment, and is gone.

My son, it minds me of a day

Left half a life behind,

That I have prayed to put away

Forever from my mind.

But bitter memory will not die: