Ill busied man! why should'st thou take such care To lengthen out thy lifes short Kalendar? When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon Presents and acts thy execution. Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must dy. Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse; There is but one, and that one ever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CINQUAIN: SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY SORROW by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE ALMS by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE NUANCES OF MENDACITY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TITA'S TEARS; A FANTASY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FAUN by ANGELO PHILIP BERTOCCI |