To the May Fly.
Thou art a frail and lovely thing,
Engender’d by the sun:
A moment only on the wing,
And thy career is done.
Thou sportest in the evening beam
An hour—an age to thee—
In gaiety above the stream,
Which soon thy grave must be.
Although thy life is like to thee
An atom—art thou not
Far happier than thou e’er couldst be
If long life were thy lot?
For then deep pangs might wound thy breast
And make thee wish for death;
But as it is thou’rt soon at rest
Thou creature of a breath!
And man’s life passeth thus away,
A thing of joy and sorrow—
The earth he treads upon to-day
Shall cover him to-morrow.
Barton Wilford.