And it is well asked—
'When thine own house, this rotting frame, doth wither,
Thinking another's lasting—goest thou thither?'
What will be, will be; and who knows not—
'Meeting makes a parting sure,
Life is nothing but death's door.'
For truly—
'As the downward-running rivers never turn and never stay,
So the days and nights stream deathward, bearing human lives away.'
And though it be objected that—
'Bethinking him of darkness grim, and death's unshunned pain,
A man strong-souled relaxes hold, like leather soaked in rain.'
Yet is this none the less assured, that—
'From the day, the hour, the minute,
Each life quickens in the womb;
Thence its march, no falter in it,
Goes straight forward to the tomb.'