Few the joys--oh! few and scattered--
That from fleeting life we borrow;
And we're paying, ever paying,
With an usury of sorrow!
If a bright emotion, passing,
Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces,
Plodding Time--the envious plowman--
Soon a shadowy furrow traces!
If a hope--ambition-nurtured--
Gilds our future, ere we've won it,
Vaunting Time--the hoary jailor--
Shuts his somber gates upon it!
If a heart our bosom seeking,
With a fond affection woos it,
Heartless Time--remorseless reaper--
Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!
Things of earth, all, all, are shadows!
And while we in vain pursue them,
Time unclasps his withered fingers--
And our wasted life slips through them.