Whose every effort is in seeming vain
Born to a world of never-ceasing pain
Born but to live a little time and die.
Consider asking, as it buzzes by,
What reason, or what hope of earthly gain,
It has for putting forth the slightest strain
And if still does so, consider why.
Life must exist to act; it cannot stay.
It cannot stand unmoved, though everything
Should shout out nothing that is done will matter.
The fly that lives a single day in May
Will still fly on, its hopes upon the wing,
Despite the knowledge it will merely spatter.
No comments:
Post a Comment