 | English Roses |  |
TIME IS NOTHING.
Sleep on! Sleep on! For time is nothing,
And life a passing breath
Which weaveth dawn and death
In one for the Great Spirit's clothing,
That moves and works beneath.
The day is short and night is longer,
And fate that gathers all is stronger
Than shifting earth and sky;
And we, the tools of hidden schools,
Must do our destiny.
O death! O life! Eternal strife!
But which is death? And which is life?
And life a passing breath
Which weaveth dawn and death
In one for the Great Spirit's clothing,
That moves and works beneath.
The day is short and night is longer,
And fate that gathers all is stronger
Than shifting earth and sky;
And we, the tools of hidden schools,
Must do our destiny.
487
But which is death? And which is life?
Dream on, dream on! The fact is vision
And vision more than fact,
The thought a larger act,
And both the mocking of derision
That plights with neither pact.
The woe is jest, the jest is solemn,
And ruin on the tallest column
Hath set its chosen seal;
The cares and joys alike are toys,
For judgment to reveal.
O life! O death! O flitting breath!
But which is life? And which is death?
And vision more than fact,
The thought a larger act,
And both the mocking of derision
That plights with neither pact.
The woe is jest, the jest is solemn,
And ruin on the tallest column
Hath set its chosen seal;
The cares and joys alike are toys,
For judgment to reveal.
O life! O death! O flitting breath!
But which is life? And which is death?
Sleep on, sleep on! And to the morrow
Bequeath the work to-day,
And toiling tune with play;
Nor meet in fear the phantom sorrow,
Which melts in light away.
The false is truth, and truth is fiction,
And bane but one with benediction
For wisdom of the years.
And those that wait, through penance strait,
Win laughter out of tears.
O death! O life! O altar knife!
But which is death? And which is life?
Bequeath the work to-day,
And toiling tune with play;
Nor meet in fear the phantom sorrow,
Which melts in light away.
The false is truth, and truth is fiction,
And bane but one with benediction
For wisdom of the years.
And those that wait, through penance strait,
Win laughter out of tears.
O death! O life! O altar knife!
But which is death? And which is life?
Dream on, dream on! Our lot is little
But substance of a dream,
And equal gloom and gleam;
The labour is a cheat, and brittle
As bubbles on a stream.
There's nought for either love or loathing,
And treads the bier on the betrothing
For future souls as past;
The serious age is farce's page,
And only follies last.
O life! O death! O empty wreath!
But which is life? And which is death?
But substance of a dream,
And equal gloom and gleam;
The labour is a cheat, and brittle
As bubbles on a stream.
There's nought for either love or loathing,
And treads the bier on the betrothing
For future souls as past;
The serious age is farce's page,
And only follies last.
O life! O death! O empty wreath!
But which is life? And which is death?
| English Roses | |