The life that is and is to be,
The only thing I bring about
Is reason's cold philosophy.
The cradle stands upon the shore
Of that dark sea, whose restless wave
Lies close behind, and just before
Is tossing up against the grave.
We drift out from that dim unknown
Up to the shore of life, and then,
Ere long, we shape a bark, and soon
Drift out upon that sea again.
The world is but a tiny isle
Wherein to make a moment's stay__
We pause and fret a little while
And then pursue our onward way.
We come, we go, who knoweth more ?
From what dim region were we borne ?
And who shall say what other shore
Our bark may touch ere its return ?
__Albert Bigelow Paine.