PERHAPS 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense! Thou art thine own distemper and offence. Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steam Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream. Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell, That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell. Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light Burns in the day, and smothers in the night. And as you see the dying taper waste, By such degrees does he to darkness haste. Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lamps Blinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps, Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink, And in their hollow sockets lowly sink; When all our vital fires ceasing to burn, Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn: God will restore those fallen lights again, And kindle them to an eternal flame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NAME OF JESUS by JOHN NEWTON THE VINE by MUHAMMAD AL-MU'TAMID II THE APPROACH OF LOVE by LOUIS ARAGON MASKS OF DEATH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL A SEA-SIDE WALK by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |