Must I then forward only look for Death?
Backward I turn mine eye, and find him there. 710
Man is a self-survivor every year.
Man, like a stream, is in perpetual flow.
Death’s a destroyer of quotidian[23] prey.
My youth, my noontide, his; my yesterday;
The bold invader shares the present hour.
Each moment on the former shuts the grave.
While man is growing, life is in decrease;
And cradles rock us nearer to the tomb.