Frances Anne Kemble - Life lyrics

At morn—a mountain ne'er to be climbed o'er, A horn of plenty, lengthening evermore; At noon—the countless hour-sands pouring fast, Waves that we scarce can see as they run past; At night—a pageant over ere begun, A course not even measured and yet run, A short mysterious tale—suddenly done. At first—a heap of treasure, heaven-high; At last—a failing purse, shrunk, lean, and beggarly.