Three old hermits took the air

By 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 near

And what waits behind the door,

Three times in a single day

I, 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 eamed

When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned,

So it’s plain to be discerned

That the shades of holy men

Who have failed, being weak of will,

Pass the Door of Birth again,

And are plagued by crowds, until

They’ve the passion to escape.”

Moaned the other, “They are thrown

Into 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 king

Or a witty lovely lady.”

While he’d rummaged rags and hair,

Caught and cracked his flea, the third,

Giddy with his hundredth year,

Sang unnoticed like a bird.