As we hurry away to the end, my friend, <br /> Of this sad little farce called existence, <br />We are sure that the future will bring one thing, <br /> And that is the grave in the distance. <br />And so when our lives run along all wrong, <br /> And nothing seems real or certain, <br />We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not) <br /> Of that spectre behind the curtain. <br /> <br />But we haven’t much time to repine or whine, <br /> Or to wound or jostle each other; <br />And the hour for us each is to-day, I say, <br /> If we mean to assist a brother. <br />And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth, <br /> But the worry it brings is double; <br />And all that repays for the strife of life, <br /> Is helping some soul in trouble. <br /> <br />I tell you, if I could go back the track <br /> To my life’s morning hour, <br />I would not set forth, seeking name or fame, <br /> Or that poor bauble called power. <br />I would be like the sunlight, and live to give; <br /> I would lend, but I would not borrow; <br />Nor would I be blind and complain of pain, <br /> Forgetting the meaning of sorrow. <br /> <br />This world is a vaporous jest at best, <br /> Tossed off by the gods in laughter; <br />And a cruel attempt at wit were it <br /> If nothing better came after. <br />It is reeking with hearts that ache and break, <br /> Which we ought to comfort and strengthen, <br />As we hurry away to the end, my friend, <br /> And the shadows behind us lengthen.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-grey-mood/
