Time’s but a courser, and his fleet career
May end before he reach another round;
Or, should he chance to run another year,
He lays a thousand dead at every bound!
Why longer trust to future years in store?
Why hang our hopes upon a spider’s thread?
Begin the work of life, and, sleep no more,
A flower late planted ne’er may raise its head;
Or choked by weeds neglected in the soil,
May never, never bloom, nor shed a cheerful smile.