Make our offering at sorrow’s call—
When we ponder how our days are creeping,
Like the shadow on the wall.
When we think how soon the sun-beam, setting,
Will depart, and leave it all in shade—
And our very friends will be forgetting
That the daylight o’er it ever played.
Life, upon a swallow’s wing is flying,
O’er the earth it sparkles and is gone;
All our days are but a lengthened dying—