 | The Shepherd's Garden |  |
119
THE EPITOME.
A little ease, a little fame,A little breath of praise and blame,
A glint of hope by time deceived,
A cloud of falsenesses believed,
A waft of joy, a world of care,
A spark of bliss, a blank despair,
A day of toil, a night of thought,
A wisdom by deep suffering bought,
A battle from whose labouring plain
Resound the cries of woe and pain,
A summer swift, a winter long,
A faith abused by fraud and wrong,
A subtle pang of pain in joy,
A want in wealth, in gold alloy,
A yearning for the better light
Sent up through shades of darksome night:
Lo, here the life we mortals have
Between the cradle and the grave.
| The Shepherd's Garden | |