Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.

Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?

Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

Before the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time with a gift of tears, Grief with a glass that ran, Pleasure with pain for leaven, Summer with flowers that fell, Remembrance fallen from heaven, And Madness risen from hell, Strength without hands to smite, Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And Life, the shadow of death.

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.