The dying lamp, ere quenched in gloom profound,
Shoots forth a beam that shames its vanished rays;
Heavenward the swan’s expiring glance is cast—
While man alone weeps for his pleasures past,
And counts his closing days.
What is the worth of time that we deplore?
A sun—a sun—an hour—and yet an hour—
And each the last resembling in its flight!
One brings the joys another bears away;
Labor—grief—rest—a vision! Such the day!