And What Is Life? - An Hour-glass

To-morrow Comes, True Copy Of To-day,and Empty Shadow Of What Is To Be;yet Cheated Hope On Future Still Depends,and Ends But Only When Our Being Ends.

Now Musing O'er The Changing Scene Farmers Behind The Tavern Screen Collect; With Elbows Idly Press'd On Hob, Reclines The Corner's Guest, Reading The News To Mark Again The Bankrupt Lists Or Price Of Grain. Puffing The While His Red-tipt Pipe He Dreams O'er Troubles Nearly Ripe, Yet, Winter's Leisure To Regale, Hopes Better Times, And Sips His Ale.

In Mid-wood Silence, Thus, How Sweet To Be; Where All The Noises, That On Peace Intrude, Come From The Chittering Cricket, Bird, And Bee, Whose Songs Have Charms To Sweeten Solitude.

Into The Nothingness Of Scorn And Noise, Into The Living Sea Of Waking Dreams, Where There Is Neither Sense Of Life Or Joys, But The Vast Shipwreck Of My Life's Esteems; And E'en The Dearest--that I Love The Best-- Are Strange--nay, Rather Stranger Than The Rest.

Throw Not My Words Away, As Many Do;they're Gold In Value, Though They're Cheap To You.