The mayfly

Poor insect! What a little day

Of sunshine bliss is thine!

And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay

And bidst them spreading shine.

Thou humm'st thy short and busy tune

Unmindful of the blast,

And careless, while 'tis burning noon,

How short that noon has past.

And show'r would lay thy beauty low,

The dew of twilight be

The torrent of thy overthrow,

Thy storm of destiny.

Then, insect, spread thy shining wing,

Hum on thy busy lay;

For man, like thee, has but his spring,

Like thine it fades away.