Or like the fresh spring’s gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood—
Even such is man, whose borrow’d light
Is straight call’d in, and paid to-night,
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entomb’d in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past—and man forgot.