What a short holiday this of Earth’s best estate!
Joys, which to man are like dreams that attest his fate;
Which, the rewards of eternity banishing,
Lead him through paths where his comfort is vanishing.
Food of the worm thou art—clod of the common clay!
O dew! O vanity! Why praise thy common way?
Thou who art ignorant whether the morrow come!
Do good to all ere the time of thy sorrow come.
Much though we value this glory of earthiness,
Scripture declareth, as grass, its unworthiness;