Everything to end is made, To impending loss well laid; Passing life we hold most dear, To waiting grave is drawing near; The mem’ries made in bliss, Soon their fateful last will kiss; For, everything will fade, To nothingness.
On the margins of leased time, Mortal breath expires its rhyme; Low crescendo notes of woe, Each rising strain of mirth below; And, though days as bright and fair, Draw each frame onwards graves’ lair: For this the end’s the aim, And wear and tear.
Life is a leaf a-hanging on a tree, Glossy-green at the rising of the sun: There dew a-dropping sodward into none; A welcomer of Spring to many a bee. Then, something sapless happens suddenly;— The harvest’s past, the boughs are cold and dun; The chilly Messenger of death has run The green back to the roots by wintery Assaults. Then, gravity augments the toll: Leaves turn a-paling, lifeless, and incline Earthward—alas! and dive in a free fall, Withered and dead at last: so is the shine Of life of man, dimmed out at age or fate, Once life-full in a luminous estate.
I love you in the beauty that the rose Cannot disclose In budding forth, Nor pureness of the pond can clear reflect As to the worth; My love is such that it cannot be deckt Or whispered by the Muse; Only our hearts, ‘twined, and more real than Jove, Can paint abstruse Colours of love.
Like mirage it is as though countable as garish towards the beholder’s eye, but most the eye that thirsts; possessed of propagandist phantasms, men tell of it as though they’re looking at it, “You are worth it.” But, what is the it…anyone?