And What Is Life? - An Hour-glass

I Found The Poems In The Fields And Only Wrote Them Down

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.

This World Has Suns, But They Are Overcast;this World Has Sweets, But They're Of Ling'ring Bloom;life Still Expects, And Empty Falls At Last;warm Hope On Tiptoe Drops Into The Tomb.

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.