I Is life as empty as the poet sings In lamentation o'er the shattered days That strew the banks of time, and mark our ways With the sad wreckage of the hopeful springs, That promised golden havens, when the wings Of joy expectant flashed empurpled rays Athwart the far horizon's golden haze, And lured us on with her soft glamourings? Alack! the mask upon the countenance Of time to cheat us with the teasing thought, That he abides eternally, perchance; Till we like eager searchers, who have sought A fleeing form through all the giddy dance, Find 'neath the mask the eyes of Death in-wrought. II Can it be true that time is but a breath Of nothingness, a shadowy film that lies Upon the senses steeped in carnal dyes, That bleach before the stinging touch of death; A moving vanity with faded wreath; An empty image mirrored in the eyes, As shadows in salt pools from shallow skies,— Life a pale ghost, the grave an empty sheath? O bitterness to sour the unfound sweet, The sweet pursued with ever-quickening chase, And still pursued, yet ever found more fleet;— Hasten, O Soul, hasten thy hurrying pace!— Alas! thou'rt still a laggard in the race, Though shod with lightnings were thy rushing feet! |