How Fugitive And Brief Is Mortal Life

The Man Who Suspects His Own Tediousness Is Yet To Be Born.

October Turned My Maple's Leaves To Gold; The Most Are Gone Now; Here And There One Lingers: Soon These Will Slip From The Twigs' Weak Hold, Like Coins Between A Dying Miser's Fingers.

We Weep When We Are Born, Not When We Die!

Though I Be Shut In Darkness, And Become Insentient Dust Blown Idly Here And There, I Count Oblivion A Scant Price To Pay For Having Once Had Held Against My Lip Life's Brimming Cup Of Hydromel And Rue--for Having Once Known Woman's Holy Love And A Child's Kiss, And For A Little Space Been Boon Companion To The Day And Night, Fed On The Odors Of The Summer Dawn, And Folded In The Beauty Of The Stars. Dear Lord, Though I Be Changed To Senseless Clay, And Serve The Potter As He Turns His Wheel, I Thank Thee For The Gracious Gift Of Tears!

O Harp Of Life, So Speedily Unstrung!