THIS life, my friends, is just the thing; one day we weep, the next we sing; today we whoop, tomorrow wail, which keeps us all from going stale. And as our days and years advance, we never know just what will chance. Tomorrow's mysteries are hid, and she is sitting on the lid, and what she has in her old chest can never be by mortal guessed. And that is why this life's sublime, and why we have so great a time. If we could in the future tread, if we could see a year ahead, and know just what the gods will send, the spice of life would have an end. The unexpected is the stuff that makes this planet good enough. At morn you rise, depressed, and say, "I fear 'twill be a lonesome day, with none to brush away my tears, or tie some tassels on my ears." And while you raise a mournful din, your aunt and seven kids blow in, with baggage packed in trunk and crate, to stay six months, or maybe eight. 'Tis then that you, with buoyant mirth, rear up and bless your native earth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 1. SEATTLE by CLARENCE MAJOR THE LITTLE BOY FOUND, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE BEYOND THE POTOMAC by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE AN ODE TO HIMSELF by BEN JONSON IN LIGHTER VEIN by ELIZABETH KEMPER ADAMS PRESCIENCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 45. A LITTLE WHILE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |