Eternal Morrows make our Day;
our _Is_ is aye _to be_ till when
Night closes in; 'tis all a dream,
and yet we die,--and then and THEN?

And still the Weaver plies his loom,
whose warp and woof is wretched Man
Weaving th' unpattern'd dark design,
so dark we doubt it owns a plan.

Dost not, O Maker, blush to hear,
amid the storm of tears and blood,
Man say Thy mercy made what is,
and saw the made and said 'twas good?

The marvel is that man can smile
dreaming his ghostly ghastly dream;-
Better the heedless atomy
that buzzes in the morning beam!

O the dread pathos of our lives!
how durst thou, Allah, thus to play
With Love, Affection, Friendship, all
that shows the god in mortal clay?

But ah! what 'vaileth man to mourn;
shall tears bring forth what smiles ne'er brought;
Shall brooding breed a thought of joy?
Ah hush the sigh, forget the thought!