He knew that the weeds of worldliness, and the smoky breath of Mammon
Had choked and killed those tender shoots, his yearnings after honour and affection;
So was he sick at heart, and my pity strove to cheer him,
But a deep and dismal gulf lay between comfort and his soul.
Then I said, Surely, O Life, thy name is vanity and sorrow,
Thy storms at noon are many, and thine eventide is clouded by remorse.
Now, when I thought upon these things, my heart was grieved within me:
I wept, with bitterness of speech, and these were the words of my complaining:
Wherefore is the bud so beautiful, but flower and fruit so blighted?
Hard is the lot of man; to be lured by the meteor of romance,