THE THREE HERMITS
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hree old hermits took the airBy a cold and desolate sea,First was muttering a prayer,Second rummaged for a flea;On a windy stone, the third,Giddy with his hundredth year,Sang unnoticed like a bird.'Though the Door of Death is nearAnd what waits behind the door,Three times in a single dayI, though upright on the shore,Fall asleep when I should pray.'So the first but now the second,'We're but given what we have earnedWhen all thoughts and deeds are reckoned,So it's plain to be discernedThat the shades of holy men,Who have failed being weak of will,Pass the Door of Birth again,And are plagued by crowds, untilThey've the passion to escape.'Moaned the other, 'They are thrownInto some most fearful shape.'But the second mocked his moan:'They are not changed to anything,Having loved God once, but maybe,To a poet or a kingOr a witty lovely lady.'While he'd rummaged rags and hair,Caught and cracked his flea, the third,Giddy with his hundredth yearSang unnoticed like a bird.
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