  Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossoms on the tree, Or like the dainty flower of May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had; Even such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, and man,—he dies! Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearlÉd dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan; Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, The hour is short, the span not long, The swan near death,—man's life is done! Like to a bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot, The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides,—man's life is done! Like to a blaze of fond delight, Or like a morning clear and bright, Or like a frost, or like a shower, Or like the pride of Babel's tower, Or like the hour that guides the time, Or like to Beauty in her prime; Even such is man, whose glory lends That life a blaze or two, and ends. The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, The beauty lost,—man's life is done! Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like swift course of waterflow, Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb, Or like the spider's tender web, Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of a dole; Even such is man, whose brittle state Is always subject unto Fate. The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, The time 's no time, the web soon rent, The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt,—man's life is done! Like to the lightning from the sky, Or like a post that quick doth hie, Or like a quaver in a short song, Or like a journey three days long, Or like the snow when summer 's come, Or like the pear, or like the plum; Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. The lightning 's past, the post must go, The song is short, the journey's so, The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, The snow dissolves,—and so must all! Simon Wastel. |
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