“Youth may be just as nigh Eternity
As Age. What though the pitfalls of Existence
Be covered o’er with flowers in lieu of snows,
Who shall foremeasure the brief distance
Between this dim dream’s birth and close?
The wingéd bolts of Death are swift to strike
Life in its dawning as decline;
The pallid Parcæ play their game alike
With your days and with mine.
Who knows which of us four shall be the one