Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/47



AN'S life at best is but a paltry gift Doled grudgingly by moments, breath on breath Till soon or late, th' inevitable death Cuts short the dole, and sets the soul adrift. Time, a sly pilferer, daily steals from youth, Some scarce-missed trifle, which it deemed its own, Secure, inalienable, till, with bitter ruth We see the radiant bosom, once Love's throne, A wrinkled horror, hidden from the day; The arms full roundness shrunk to lean decay, The golden tresses changed to ashen grey, And, one by one Life's compensations flown, To Death, upon the threshold loitering, We stretch forth eager hands of welcoming.