Your Life

Your life is like a little winter's day

Whose sad sun rises late to set too soon;

You have just come—why will you go away,

Making an evening of what should be noon.

Your life is like a little flute complaining

A long way off, beyond the willow trees:

A long way off, and nothing left remaining

But memory of a music on the breeze.

Your life is like a pitiful leave-taking

Wept in a dream before a man's awaking,

A Call with only shadows to attend:

A Benediction whispered and belated

Which has no fruit beyond a consecrated,

A consecrated silence at the end.