Life

Life's not our own, — 't is but a loan
To be repaid;
Soon the dark Comer's at the door,
The debt is due: the dream is o'er, —
Life's but a shade.

Thus all decline that bloom or shine,
Both star and flower;
'T is but a little odor shed,
A light gone out, a spirit fled,
A funeral hour.

Then let us show a tranquil brow
Whate'er befalls;
That we upon life's latest brink
May look on Death's dark face, — and think
An angel calls.