MAN'S life was once a span; now one of those Atoms of which old Sophies did compose The world; a thing so small, no emptiness Nature can find at all by his decease; Nor need she to attenuate the air, And spreading it, his vacancy repair; The swellings that in hearts and eyes arise, Repay with ample bulk death's robberies. Why should we then weep for a thing so slight, Converting life's short day to a long night? For sorrows make one month seem many years: Time's multiplying glass is made of tears. Our life is but a painted perspective; Grief the false light, that doth the distance give; Nor doth it with delight (as shadowing) Set off, but, as a staff fixt in a spring, Seem crookt and larger; then dry up thy tears, Since through a double mean nought right appears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAWN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MONUMENT MOUNTAIN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TO MY BOOKSELLER by BEN JONSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: GUINEVERE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE MAIMED DEBAUCHEE by JOHN WILMOT THE VILLAGE MUNITIONS CO., INC.; FORMERLY THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |