Life and Existence

I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me.

Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.

Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.

Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep—that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats though unseen among us—visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower.

Seek out—less often sought than found— A soldier’s grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The “good old times”—all times when old are good— Are gone.

To have seen better days, as who has not Who has seen yesterday?

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

’Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff’d out by an article.

A lady of “a certain age,” which means Certainly aged.

And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall.

Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication.

There’s nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion.

So we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we’ll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

Though the day of my destiny’s over, And the star of my fate hath declined.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here’s a double health to thee! Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here’s a double health to thee! Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate.