the harp like strings of destiny

stretched taut awhile, then broke,

so life gives o’er the battle

to death’s relentless stroke.

what’s wealth with all its glitter

when the sands of life are spent?

it cannot unfold the curtain

of that solitary tent.

fame is just a tempting bauble

that comes when least we call,

and fate stands thus dividing

rain and roses ’mongst us all.

life is just a few short summers,

breath of roses and a prayer.

then a little tent to sleep in

when we grow too tired to care.

the high, the low, the haughty,

the humble, too, meet here.

and share like common brothers

the sorrow and the tear.{77}

but life must have its raining

for the master wills it so;

and broken harps are mended,

after death has struck the blow.