How can I serve my Maker when my heart
Is passion's captive, is a slave to sin?
But should I strive to scale ambition's height,
Who with the worm may sleep ere fall of night?
Or can I joy in happiness to-day
Who know not what may chance by morning's light?
My days and nights will soon, with restless speed,
Consume life's remnant yet to me decreed;
Then half my body shall the winds disperse,
Half will return to dust, as dust indeed.