Life is bitter. All the faces of the years, Young and old, are gray with travail and with tears. Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep? In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours, Let me sleep. Riches won but mock the old, unable years; Fame's a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; Love must wither, or must live alone and weep. In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, While we slumber, death approaches through the hours . . . Let me sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TARRY BUCCANEER by JOHN MASEFIELD BLACK AND BLUE EYES by THOMAS MOORE THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE by AMELIA OPIE VILLANELLE, WITH STEVENSON'S ASSISTANCE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS AUTUMN; WRITTEN IN THE GROUNDS OF MARTIN COLE, ESQ. by BERNARD BARTON |