And what is Life? — An hour-glass on the run,

A mist retreating from the morning sun,

A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

Its length? — A minute's pause, a moment's thought.

And Happiness? — A bubble on the stream,

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

And what is Hope? — The puffing gale of morn,

That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,

And robs each flow'ret of its gem — and dies;

A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,

Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?

That dark mysterious name of horrid sound? —

A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.

And Peace? Where can its happiness abound? —

Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is Life? — When stripped of its disguise,

A thing to be desired it cannot be;

Since everything that meets our foolish eyes

Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

'Tis but a trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize

That happiness vain man's denied to know,

Until he's called to claim it in the skies.

-John Clare-