'The Voice Of My Beloved Knocking'
Oh, Friend of friends,
What is it that we seek?
Is it the meaning of the end?
Is it the smell of rotting I reek?
Look at the sun dappled fields,
The glorious rite of the last spring,
The golden rays the sun wields,
The rising of the lark on its wing.
Soon it all will fade,
Raging against the dying of the Light,
The encroaching cold of the shade,
Slowly sinking in the darkness of the Night.
Antonie 'Dutch' Bakhuijsen