'T is the same old tale I would repeat,
That life is short and that time is fleet;
The hour has flown ere we've taken breath,
And we find ourselves at the gates of Death.
The blood that has rolled through our youthful vein
Will never retrace its course again;
But the words that escape our burning lip
Do not, like youth, in oblivion slip.
And the deeds that a youthful impulse move
An eternal judgment yet may prove,
And the thoughts that a youthful bosom bore
In eternal echoings yet may roar.
Then away with the myth of a happy youth,
'T is a dream that but tells us half the truth;
For a living life in death are we,
Till the angel Death shall have set us free.