Life, sweet life, as she flutters nigh,
'Minishing, failing night and day,
Cries with a loud and bitter cry,
'Ev'rything passes, passes away.'
* * * * *
Who has lived as long as he chose?
Who so confident as to defy
Time, the fellest of mortals' foes?
Joints in his armour who can spy?
Where's the foot will nor flinch nor fly?
Where's the heart that aspires the fray?
His battle wager 'tis vain to try--
Ev'rything passes, passes away."
The age is diseased. Why should men be mournful because what they call
their aspirations--precious aspirations--are frustrated? They seek the
bubble reputation, and they whimper when the bubble is burst; but how
much better would it be to cleave to lowly duties, to do the thing
that lies next to hand, to accept cheerfully the bounteous harvest of
joys vouchsafed to the humble? Since we all end alike--since the
warrior, the statesman, the poet alike leave no name on earth save in
the case of the few Titans--what use is there in fretting ourselves
into green-sickness simply because we cannot quite get our own way? To
the wise man every moment of life may be made fruitful of rich
pleasure, and the pleasure can be bought without heartache, without
struggling painfully, without risking envy and uncharitableness.
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