The Three Hermits

    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 earned
    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.