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VANITAS.
- THE glory of Life is fleeting;
- Its splendour passeth away,
- As the tints and odours meeting
- In the flowers we twined to‐day.
- How brightly, in varied light,
- They reflected the morning sun;
- But the chilling dews of the night
- Withered them one by one.
- So the stream of Existence floweth
- O’er the golden sands of youth,
- In the light of a joy that gloweth
- From the depths of its love and truth.
- But heavy, and cold, and fast,
- The gathering clouds uprise,
- Eclipsing the light, which cast
- On the waters a thousand dyes.
- And onward, in sullen endeavour,
- Like a stream in a sunless cave,
- It floweth in darkness ever:
- Yet—could we thus reach the grave!
- But we wake to a sorrow deeper—
- The knowledge of all we have lost;
- And the light grows fainter and weaker
- As we’re borne from youth’s sunny coast.
- Yet onward with drifting motion,
- Still farther from life and light;
- Around us a desert Ocean—
- Above us eternal Night.
