Ill busied man! why should'st thou take such care To lengthen out thy lifes short Kalendar? When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon Presents and acts thy execution. Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must dy. Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse; There is but one, and that one ever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BELL by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES CHAMBER MUSIC: 36 by JAMES JOYCE WINDS ARE THE WATCHMEN by IVA PURDUM BRUTON EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS [OR VILLERS] (3) by THOMAS CAREW A CONCEIT by EDWARD JAMES MORTIMER COLLINS FIRST SONGS: 6 by HILDA CONKLING LONDON SECOND TEARS by JOHN CROUCH TO DELIA: DEDICATORY SONNET TO LADY MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE by SAMUEL DANIEL |