Futility.
235
Nature, thy foster-mother, hears thy bitter chiding,
Laughs at thy sullen brow and useless spleen,
Till Death draws down his sombre curtain, hiding
Thy spent existence deep in the unseen.
Laughs at thy sullen brow and useless spleen,
Till Death draws down his sombre curtain, hiding
Thy spent existence deep in the unseen.
And to thy frantic cry of whence, and wherefore,
And why, and whither makes a cold reply—
"Life feeds on death, it nourished thee, therefore
Thou also, in due time, must surely die."
And why, and whither makes a cold reply—
"Life feeds on death, it nourished thee, therefore
Thou also, in due time, must surely die."
