Sketches of life upon the slabs of death
Our loving hand on living stone indites:
Sketches of death upon the screens of life
Time, the great limner, for a warning writes.

Sketches of joy upon the face of sorrow,
Still credulous, our aching fingers trace:
Time steals the pencil, and with bitter scorn,
Sketches old sorrow on our young joy’s face.

E’en so our sketch of life is framed and fashion’d;
In vain with glowing touches we begin—
By day we work upon the light and colour,
Time comes by night and puts the shadows in.