Ashes to ashes, and one by one The names drop out of our prayers; And one hardly smiles at the face in the glass, For who is there left that cares? There's never a night but the longing comes, (For only the wise forget) And the hour when the clock ticks loudest seems The time for a fool's regret. What does it profit to lie awake, Worn with the day's care and cark? What does it profit to sob and sigh And wring one's hands in the dark? Is there never a chance to set things right, Or forget them in all the years? Can we find no place of repentance if We search for it long, with tears? |