How short, how narrow is the span,
How few the years allow’d to man;
And e’en in those few years he feels,
And groans, beneath a thousand ills.
As springs the flower in some gay mead,
Then sudden hangs its drooping head,
So does our boasted strength decay,
And, like the shadow, flee away.
For every moment that we breathe,
We’re hast’ning to the gates of Death!