Few the joys-oh! few and scattered-
That from fleeting life we borrow;
And we're paying, ever paying,
With an usury of sorrow!

If a bright emotion, passing,
Casts a sun-ray o'er our faces,
Plodding Time-the envious plowman-
Soon a shadowy furrow traces!

If a hope-ambition-nurtured-
Gilds our future, ere we've won it,
Vaunting Time-the hoary jailor-
Shuts his somber gates upon it!

If a heart our bosom seeking,
With a fond affection woos it,
Heartless Time-remorseless reaper-
Sweeps his ruthless sickle through it!

Things of earth, all, all, are shadows!
And while we in vain pursue them,
Time unclasps his withered fingers-
And our wasted life slips through them.