Page:Carroll - Sylvie and Bruno.djvu/11



Is all our Life, then, but a dream Seen faintly in the golden gleam Athwart Time's dark resistless stream?

Bowed to the earth with bitter woe, Or laughing at some raree-show, We flutter idly to and fro.

Man's little Day in haste we spend, And, from its merry noontide, send No glance to meet the silent end.