For us poor things”, they cry; “the hour employ!
What is is ours; for use; not to recall!”
As if of death’s ills, if any, of all
Chief were to think of feasting in the past,
Feel in the hand the wine cup, and not taste!
Mere slumber will the night from day divide,
And brush life’s merriment and cares aside.
Death has infinite force to put asleep
Body and Mind, and how can men then keep
From craving the fuller, they being one?