html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Down, far down, in the waters deep,
Where the booming surges above us sweep,
Our revels from night till morn we keep:
And though with us the cup goes round
Upon every shore where the blue waves sound,
Yet here, as it passes from lip to lip,
Alone is found true fellowship;
For only the dead, where'er they range,
'Tis the Dead alone who never change.
What boots your pledges, ye sons of Earth!
Or to whom ye drink in your hours of mirth,
When gather'd around your festal hearth?
Ye fill to love! and the toast ye give:
Will hardly the fumes of your wine outlive!
To friendship fill! and its tale is told,
Almost ere the pledge on your lip grows cold!
For only the Dead, where'er they range,
'Tis the Dead alone who never change.
Then come, when the "bolt of death is hurl'd,"
Come down to us from that bleak, bleak world,
Where the wings of sorrow are never furl'd:
Come, and we'll drink to the shades of the past;
To the hopes that mock'd in life to the last;
To the lips and the eyes we once would adore,
And the loves that in death can delude no more!
For the Dead, the Dead, where'er they range,
'Tis only the Dead who never change.