WHEN mirth is full and free, <br /> Some sudden gloom shall be; <br /> When haughty power mounts high, <br /> The Watcher’s axe is nigh. <br />All growth has bound; when greatest found, <br /> It hastes to die. <br /> <br /> When the rich town, that long <br /> Has lain its huts among, <br /> Uprears its pageants vast, <br /> And vaunts—it shall not last! <br />Bright tints that shine are but a sign <br /> Of summer past. <br /> <br /> And when thine eye surveys, <br /> With fond adoring gaze, <br /> And yearning heart, thy friend, <br /> Love to its grave doth tend. <br />All gifts below, save Truth, but grow <br /> Towards an end.<br /><br />John Henry Newman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/reverses/
