Whate’er our beauty, worth, or loving powers,
We live, we strive, we die, and are forgot;
We are no more regarded than the flowers;
And death and darkness is our destined lot!
One bud from off the tree of Earth is naught,
One crude fruit from the ripening bough of Thought,
The hinds will ne’er lament, in harvest-time,
The bud, the fruit that fell and wasted in its prime!
Away with Action! ’tis the ban of Time,
The curse that clung to us from Eden’s gate;