DEATH IN LIFE

Another day is past, and while it past,

What have I pondered or conceived or read?

Nothing! Another day has gone to waste.

Nothing! Each hour as it is born is dead.

I have done nothing. Time from me has fled,

And unto Beauty not a statue raised!

By thought's firm power no creed nor lie debased

By this young useless and wearied.

Is it my lot then ever to remain

Like a grain of sand upon the beach,

A thing at will of wind, at will of sea?

Alas, that aught that wishes and has pain,

Because e'er fall'n from what its power should reach

Less than a thing inanimate should be!